


Perfect on Paper

by jailikechai



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction recovery, Alternate Universe - Politics, Angst, Boys In Love, Cas is awkward and overprotective, Cheating (NOT Dean/Cas), Crowley ruins the day, Dean and Jess are friends, Dean doesn't panic, Dean feeds Cas pie, Dean has a thing for Cas' ties, Divorce, Drug Addiction, Drunk Driving, Falling In Love, Genetic Engineering, Initial Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, Love Confessions, M/M, Meg is a sassy bitch and I love her, Michael is a dick, Minor Character Death, Past Cassie Robinson/Dean Winchester, Politics, Pop Culture Education, Smut, Sunshine - Freeform, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, accountant!Cas, bad sexual innuendos, drug overdose, first time blowjobs, hints of future Sam/Jess, manipulative!Ruby, no Dean is not vacuuming because Cas is coming over, publicist!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 05:49:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 75,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8192557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jailikechai/pseuds/jailikechai
Summary: Dean Winchester is Perfect: successful lawyer, loving husband, talented athlete. At least, that what the genetic engineers who tampered with his genes before his birth said he was supposed to be. When Dean's perfect world comes crashing down around him, he has to deal with the difference between who he is on paper, and who he is in the real world. As Dean watches his brother fight against his genetic heritage, and his new boss begrudgingly submit to his, Dean wonders if what's on paper is really so perfect after all.





	1. Busted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first three chapters deal with Dean's fall from grace, and they're not too happy. There is divorce, infidelity, a drunk driving death, a few mildly explicit Dean/Lisa scenes, and generally a lot of Bad Things happen to Dean. Feel free to skip to Chapter 4 (when it's posted!), where things start to turn around a little for Dean, and Cas comes into the picture, but be aware that the events of the first three chapters will be discussed later.

Dean steps off the curb and into a puddle of icy, brown, ankle-deep slush, cursing and shaking his soaking cold foot as he jogs across the intersection. The faint strains of  _ I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas _ drift through the air from the tiny convenience store on the corner. Dean snorts, sure that whoever wrote that particular song had never visited Cleveland in December. He clutches a brown folder of legal documents to his chest and walks a little more quickly down the cold, brown, slushy street. He almost plows straight into the slight girl in the fuschia coat thrusting a flier at him.

"Donate to Generous Genes this holiday season and help underprivileged parents afford mods for their precious babies! Children are the future and they deserve the very best from the very start!" the girl recites as quickly as possible before Dean can pass by. 

"Uh," Dean mumbles, automatically clutching the flier, but not slowing down a beat. "Yeah." The girl has already moved onto the next target, and Dean tosses the flier in the next trashcan he sees.

Dean has been living in the run down studio apartment for three months and he still doesn’t have a table. It was the only place that had been available for immediate move-in when Cassie kicked him out of their swanky flat; a drab, unfurnished box with enough space to fit the mattress and TV he salvaged from the guest bedroom in the flat, a small bathroom that has a door that sticks when fully closed and smells faintly of mildew, and one of those efficiency kitchens that has only a hot plate instead of a proper stove. Dean feels like he should have a table. He doesn’t know why, but it feels important.

He drops the folder of documents on the floor, frowning morosely at it as muddy brown water from his soaking pant cuffs drips and leaves splotches of damp on the brown cover. Cassie reminded him in exasperated tones when they parted earlier that he actually needs to read all the documents carefully this time, before their next meeting with the lawyer. Dean doesn't see the point; he already knows what they say.

No fault. Incompatible. A mistake in the stats. A man who, on paper, should have been the perfect husband and a couple who should have been perfectly happy, except for the part where he couldn't fall in love with the perfect woman. A failure. A bust. Dean already knows what he is, he doesn’t need the divorce papers to remind him.

Dean shucks his ruined shoes and peels off his wet pants and socks, leaving them in a heap on the questionably clean carpet. He looks over the suits hanging neatly in the closet and hopes the mildew smell hasn’t soaked into the fabric. He wonders if he should get them dry cleaned. Cassie usually handles the dry cleaning.

Thinking about Cassie makes Dean feel a little sick, so he flips on the TV as a distraction while he shaves and decides between a blue tie or a red one. Red is supposed to make you appear more masculine and powerful, but Dean likes blue better.

"Doctor Sexy," the nurse on the TV breathes huskily. "I think I was made for you." She presses her lithe form up against the man in question, batting her eyelashes over brilliant turquoise eyes.

"I think you were," Doctor Sexy growls back with a toss of his lush head of hair, grabbing her and tilting her back for a dramatic kiss.

Dean snorts and pauses in his preparations to enjoy the moment. Both of the actors are gens, commissioned by the movie studios, genetically engineered from scratch and raised to be stars. They are completely fabricated dolls for the industry, but that doesn't mean that Dean can't enjoy two perfect specimens of humanity engaging in a little tongue action. In fact, it would be an insult to the talent of the genetic engineers who created them not to appreciate their work. 

As if to prove his point, the program breaks into a commercial for a local GE lab.

"Give your partner the best gift they can imagine this holiday season," the impassioned spokesperson gushes, "the gift of life!"

Dean shudders at the thought of buying a baby as a Christmas gift, but to each their own, he supposes. At least gens don't reject their genes and end up busts, like him. The world doesn't really need any more screw ups dragging it down.

Dean’s cell phone rings, snapping him out of his reverie. He grimaces when he sees the name on the screen.

“Hey, Dad,” Dean answers, trying to keep his voice light and even.

“Dean. Is Judge Atwell going to be at the party tonight?” John wastes no time on pleasantries.

“He RSVP'd. Dad, you can’t show up just to sweet talk the judges, Lisa will kill you.”

“I paid my share, I can damn well do whatever I like with my time.”

“I thought you wanted Lisa to get elected,” Dean huffs.

“If she doesn’t it won’t be because of anything I do. If you were doing your job right, you wouldn’t have anything to worry about,” John accuses. Dean slumps at the words, grateful his father can’t see him.

“It’s fine, Dad. I mean, her candidacy's not even official yet and she's already polling ahead. I’ve got this,” Dean says.

“Good boy. Is Cassie coming tonight?”

“No, she’s got to work,” Dean lies. Cassie will be working, so maybe not too much of a lie, but John doesn't need to know the real reason Cassie won't be attending any more public functions at his side.

“That girl works too much,” John comments, and Dean has to bite his lip to keep from snorting at the hypocrisy. John Winchester only knows how to do two things: work, and drink. Dean can already foresee that tonight is going to be a night where he does both.

“Need me to give you a ride?”

“I’m prepping for a deposition tomorrow. I’ll see you there.”

Dean feels like he should argue the point - Dean can be designated driver and John can read his files while Dean helps set up the event - but he knows better than to start a fight with John. Litigators don’t lose fights, John always says.

“Ok, see you there,” Dean affirms, and the call cuts off. Dean looks at his phone silently for a moment before tossing it onto his bed.

Dean chooses to wear the blue tie. He knots it neatly around his neck and checks his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Blue is trustworthy, Dean justifies to himself. He can be trustworthy.

"Because I was born for this job," Michael Novak is saying his campaign catch phrase on the TV, smiling his perfect gen smile as the Novak for President logo flashes beside him. Dean admires the design work on the logo, and makes a note to ask Anna who the designer was. He flicks off the TV, straightens his tie one more time, and heads for the door, spitefully stomping on the folder containing the divorce papers on his way out.

~~

“Oh, thank god you’re finally here,” Lisa exclaims, rushing to Dean’s side as soon as he enters the room. Her hair and makeup are already done up for the party, but she's still dressed in ratty jeans and one of her husband's wrinkled button-ups, presenting an adorably frazzled appearance.

“Here to save the day,” Dean flashes his patented Charming Smile.

The rented banquet hall is decked out in magnificent red and gold for Lisa's famous Christmas party, staff bustling around setting candles and place settings on the tables and hanging lush evergreen wreaths on the walls. Dean notes several of the wreaths are glaringly crooked.

“Ava Wilson from the Post is here. Three hours early, the press wall isn't even set up yet,” Lisa babbles, her hands making frantic little gestures. Dean catches her wrists to still the movement.

“Hey, Lis, calm down. I’ll deal with it,” Dean looks down at her, toning down the Charming Smile into a more genuine one. Lisa sucks in a deep breath and lets it out with an audible sigh.

“Right, ok,” Lisa repeats to herself, leaning into Dean’s bulk to calm herself. 

“Good. Now, go sit down and go over your notes, let me handle everything else. Where's Gary?”

“He’s not here yet,” Lisa grumbles as she allows Dean to guide her into a seat at the edge of the room. “I should just give you his job title already.”

“Can’t have you playing favorites,” Dean smirks, squeezing her shoulder lightly. “I’ll be right back. Hey, fix that wreath!” Dean snaps his fingers at a dazed waitress, pointing to the lopsided decoration as he bee-lines for the front entrance. 

Ava is easy to deal with, thank god for small blessings. Gary, Lisa’s chief of staff and campaign manager, is still nowhere to be seen, and Dean is reconsidering the offer of his title. His dad would like that; Dean Winchester, official campaign manager for Senatorial candidate Lisa Braeden. PR Manager doesn’t have the same ring to it, and god forbid anyone call him Lisa's publicist. 

Thanks to Lisa’s nearly obsessive pre-planning, set-up for the party is going pretty smoothly, and only the assistant caterer appears to be having a nervous breakdown in the bathroom, which Dean thinks is some kind of record. At last year's party they had at least two breakdowns, and the florist quietly hyperventilating while rearranging the centerpieces. Dean finds Lisa sequestered in the hallway between the main room and the bathrooms, quietly reciting the names of the guests to make sure she has the pronunciations correct. 

“Hey,” Dean greets her, stepping behind her and kneading the tension out of her shoulders. Lisa hums appreciatively. “You feeling better?”

“Mhm. Thanks, Dean.” Lisa turns around to face him, looking up into his green eyes with a warm smile. “How are you doing?”

Dean shrugs one shoulder, the corner of his mouth pulling into an ironic half-smile. “Me and Cassie met with the lawyer today.”

“Oh, Dean, I’m sorry.”

“Nah, it’s for the best.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s easy.” Lisa lets out a rueful little laugh. “God, you know what my marital life is like. I’m the last person you have to hide that kind of stuff from.”

“Yeah, well, won’t let it affect my work, or anything, promise,” Dean shakes off her concern.

“God forbid!” Lisa says, sarcastically scandalized. “Dean, the day that I see your work ethic slack off is the day hell freezes over.  I would force you to take a vacation if I didn’t need you so much.”

“I wouldn’t hate you giving me some personal time,” Dean winks. 

Lisa rolls her eyes. "Maybe later," she promises with an indulgent smile, "But right now, speaking of work, I'm pretty sure we both have some to do." She pulls away, nodding back towards the main room, and Dean follows her back into the fray.

Lisa made the transition from socialite to politician ten years ago, after marrying her norm husband and devoting herself to fighting for norm rights. The infamous Braeden Christmas parties are the one remnant of her high society days that she still clings to. Dean puts up with them because they're fantastic press, especially now that they're charging into national politics. Lisa's been talking about running for Senate for years, and now that it's finally becoming a reality, Dean is eager for every scrap of the spotlight he can shine on his boss and friend.

Dean reminds himself of this fact as Mrs. Pritchett plants a wet kiss on his cheek. He gives the old lady his Charming Smile, glancing over at Lisa, stunning in her elegant evening gown, chatting with Congressman Pritchett near the press wall while cameras flash. Dean envies her easy charm.

"Night seems to be going well," a familiar voice comments as Mrs. Pritchett is distracted by the young CEO of some tech company walking by. Dean turns to face the slim red-head wearing a dark green dress approaching him.

"Isn't press supposed to stay behind the ropes?" he teases, winking at the woman.

"You know you couldn't bear to turn me away," she says with a small smile and a shake of her head. Dean wraps his arms around her in a hug.

"Anna, you know I couldn't do this shit without you," Dean replies with feeling. Anna is one of the few reporters he actually trusts, probably the fairest and most unbiased political journalist he's ever met, in spite of her connection to the most powerful political dynasty in recent history. Or maybe because of that. 

"The turnout's amazing," Anna comments, observing the crowds of the rich and powerful drifting into the hall. "If you keep this up Lisa's campaign really will be a walk in the park."

"It's all Lis. I just make the phone calls," Dean says modestly. 

"You know, someday you're going to have to admit that you're good at your job," Anna sighs. 

"Just because I'm a bust at what I'm supposed to be doing," Dean gripes. He's distracted when Anna frowns, looking at something across the room.

"What in the world is Fergus Crowley doing here?" 

Dean follows her gaze. The man is a norm - a little too much weight and too little hair to boast any altered genes. To make up for it he is wearing the most perfectly tailored suit Dean has ever seen, probably worth more than all the suits in Dean's closet combined. He's never met Crowley before, but his reputation preceded him. The man wrote damning exposes for an online paper called the Haverson Post, delighting in splashing scandals that quickly went viral all over the front pages. He was already responsible for the fall from grace of at least two famous actors and one prominent CEO exposed in a secret gay affair. It looks like a politician is next on his hit list.

"He made a huge donation to the campaign and a bigger one to the charity. Imagine how it would look if we didn't invite him. Is he really that bad?" Dean frowns.

"Dean, that man is a snake calling himself a journalist." Anna shakes her head and wrinkles her nose distastefully. "If I didn't know that Lisa is one of the cleanest candidates I've ever seen, I would be worried for you."

Dean's gut twists.

"Yeah, Lis's got nothing to worry about," Dean forces a chuckle. Anna gives him a sharp glance, but doesn't comment.

"How's Cassie?" Anna changes the subject, although it doesn't make Dean feel any better.

"Ah. She's good." Dean shifts, swallowing. "We talked to a divorce attorney today."

Anna's eyes fill with compassion.

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Better. But, uh, don't mention it to my dad," Dean pleads, catching her warm grey eyes. Anna nods, understanding. 

"Is he coming tonight, then?"

"Yeah." Dean looks around, with a frown. "He should be here by now." Dean's eye is caught instead by Crowley sauntering up to Lisa. Dean can't read what he says, but he can clearly identify the exact moment that Lisa's smile changes from ' Lisa-Braeden-genuine-nice-person' to 'Lisa-Braeden-politician'.

"Uh. Sorry, but I should," Dean nods towards Lisa and Crowley by way of explanation of his abrupt departure to Anna.

"Good idea," Anna agrees, and her eyes follow him thoughtfully as he crosses the room. Dean pastes on his Charming Smile as he approaches his boss and the reporter. Lisa catches his eyes, and although her smile doesn't budge an inch, Dean can read the tight note in her eyes.

"Mr. Crowley, I'm sure you know my PR Manager, Dean Winchester?" Lisa smiles, waving Dean in. Crowley's handshake is limp and clammy.

"Yes, we spoke on the phone," Crowley nods, his round British accent sounding even more condescending in person.

"We're happy that you could make it tonight," Dean says blandly. "You've been very generous."

"I'm sure my investment will pay off. I expect big things from Ms. Braeden," Crowley replies, eyeing the candidate like a shark eyeing chum. Lisa smiles brightly, but her eyes grow colder. "I was just asking her about her husband."

Of course Crowley would already know the buttons to push to get under Lisa's skin.

“My family has always been my biggest supporters,” Lisa says diplomatically, “I am so grateful to have Matthew and Ben at my side.”

“Of course,” Crowley agrees. “Will your happy family be joining you tonight?”

“Matthew is home with Ben. An event like this is pure boredom for a nine-year-old,” Lisa laughs lightly.

"And your husband stays out of the spotlight," Crowley adds with a condescending nod. "Norms are best left at home, aren't they?"

"I am very blessed to have a husband who enjoys spending time with our son, regardless of his genes," Lisa answers.

"Matthew and Ben are Lisa's biggest inspirations," Dean cuts in, "as evidenced by her outstanding record in supporting legislation that supports and protects norms."

“So you’re close with Lisa’s family, Mr. Winchester?” Crowley turns his shark smile onto Dean.

“Lisa’s family is very involved with the campaign so we spend a lot of time together,” Dean chooses his words carefully.

“You’re also friends with Ms. Braeden from college, are you not?”

Dean doesn’t allow an ounce of emotion to show on his face, but the inside of his head is turmoil. Crowley obviously did a lot of research before showing up tonight. It’s not like Dean and Lisa’s friendship or the friction between Lisa and her husband are secrets, but they’re definitely not things they broadcast to the general public.

“Dean was two years behind me at Case Western,” Lisa answers cooly. Crowley hums thoughtfully, his wide eyed gaze too innocent to be genuine.

“Lisa took pity on me when I was struggling through my first economics class. She was brilliant back then, and still is.” Dean offers Crowley his cool, ‘I don’t like you and you don’t like me but we’re professionals so let’s just pretend otherwise’ smile. Crowley returns it in kind.

“Well, I’m looking forward to seeing that brilliance pay off. Ms. Braeden. Mr. Winchester.” Crowley nods at them both, and wanders off, waving at the young CEO Mrs. Pritchett was oggling earlier, who tries and fails to edge away from the journalist.

Lisa watches him go, her face still frozen in her perfect Politician Smile.

"Norm complex, much?" Dean sneers at the stout man's perfectly tailored back.

"Dean!" Lisa admonishes.

"What? Can't tell me that's not classic 'boo-hoo my mommy and daddy couldn't afford mods, so now I take it out on everyone who could.'" Dean shakes his head. "He's compensating. It's sad." 

"Dear lord, don't let anyone from the press hear you talking like that," Lisa gasps. "Aren't you supposed to be protecting my reputation?"

"I don't hear you disagreeing," Dean grins.

"You're impossible," Lisa exclaims. Her expression fades to one of genuine warmth as she looks at Dean. He smiles softly in return, and nods towards the main banquet hall.

"Come on, I think you have some more schmoozing to do," he prompts, offering his arm to walk her back inside. Neither of them notice the subtle snap of a lingering camera behind them.

John Winchester stumbles into the room halfway through the second course of dinner. Mrs. Pritchett doesn’t bother hiding her expression of horror and leans in to whisper something in Congressman Pritchett’s ear. When Dean rushes over to his father’s side he can smell the alcohol. He breathes deep and slow, trembling slightly in his effort to keep his anger under control.

“Dad,” Dean hisses, grabbing John’s arm to yank him out of the center of attention. “What the hell do you think you’re doing.”

John yanks his arm away from Dean, fixing him with a harsh look and a sneer.

“Get your hand off me, boy,” John warns.

“Dad, you’re  _ drunk _ ,” Dean growls with barely concealed rage. John’s expression becomes infuriatingly pitying.

“I think I’d know if I was drunk, Dean. The office just went out for a few drinks to celebrate a big settlement. This is nothing.” 

Dean stares at him helplessly.

“You’re over an hour late.”

John scoffs. 

“Don’t you dare get fresh with me. No one even notices if you’re late to things like this, too wrapped up in their own big heads feeling proud of themselves for buying themselves a politician.” John’s eyes scan over Dean and he reaches out to flick Dean’s tie. “You look unemployed. What are you, some kind of norm? Can’t you afford a better suit? And you should have worn the red tie. I’m surprised Cassie lets you out of the house looking like that.”

Dean’s jaw ticks as John stalks off, clapping Judge Atwell on the shoulder as he passes by, his voice a little too loud as he greets the Judge. A waiter hands him a drink a moment later. Lisa tries to catch Dean’s eye, but Dean looks away. He can’t do anything about his father without causing an even bigger scene. John’s drunkenness is only a minor inconvenience.

John disappears completely shortly after dinner, before Dean can call him a cab. Dean’s not sure whether to be worried, or grateful to escape further scrutiny. He thinks the event was an overall success, minor incidents aside, but he is sure his father will find some way to criticize his work. He endures another wet kiss on the cheek from Mrs. Pritchett, accompanied by an unsubtle pat in an awkward place, as the guests file out. The lights in the building are being shut off when Dean finally heads back to his apartment.

Dean tosses his coat onto the floor when he trudges back through the door into the empty, darkened apartment. Table, he reminds himself. He collapses onto the bed without bothering to flip on the lights. He should check the news to see if there is any report of tonight's party, but both the TV remote and his laptop are across the room and Dean is exhausted. He slips his tie off and tosses it onto the ground next to the bed. He’ll wear the red one next time.

He is almost drifting off to sleep when a soft tapping on the door startles him. Dean growls and blinks sleepily, turning the switch on the table lamp sitting on the floor in the corner before opening the door. 

“You’re still wearing your suit,” Lisa observes as she brushes past him and closes the door behind her. She unwinds the scarf from around her neck and drops her coat on the floor next to Dean's. Dean’s forehead furrows.

“Lis, what’re you doing here?”

Lisa winds her arms around his neck, pressing up against him, the faint orchid scent of her shampoo drifting up into his nostrils. She never wears real perfume, just in case one of the voters is allergic. Dean automatically slides his arms around her waist and pulls her closer.

“I thought we could both use some of that personal time we were talking about earlier.” 

Dean hums in agreement and Lisa pulls him down for a kiss.

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” Dean asks when they break apart for a breath. “That ball of slime reporter tonight -”

Lisa shuts him up with another kiss.

“I was careful,” she assures him. “And I really need the stress relief right now. I just - I couldn't stay at home. Matt is sweet, really, but he's such a norm. He can't do the things you do to me.”

She carefully peels off Dean’s suit jacket and un-tucks his shirt. Dean feels his pulse speed up as he watches Lisa move confidently around him.

“Sorry about my dad tonight,” he breathes, struggling for coherent thought as Lisa presses in tight again and tucks her hands into the back of his waistband. Lisa rolls her eyes.

“I am having strong words with that man the next time I see him, but if I threw a fit every time he showed up somewhere drunk I wouldn’t have much of a career, and neither would he.” Lisa slides her hands further down and Dean gives up the battle for mental functions. Lisa smiled up at him, tugging his groin in to press against her hip. “Now, are you going to keep trying to talk about work, or are you going to fuck me?”

Dean leans down to grab her by the thighs, lifting her lithe form off the ground and wrapping her legs around his hips. He kisses her as he stumbles backwards towards the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say hi on [Tumblr](http://jailikechai.tumblr.com)


	2. Busted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same notes as the previous chapter for Bad Things ahead for Dean.

Lisa never stays more than twenty minutes after they finish. She gives a light, satisfied sigh and bounces out of bed without another word or a last touch. She just dashes into the bathroom to clean up and put herself back together, erasing all evidence of her indiscretion before heading home to her husband and son. Dean is always left alone, cold and naked after he sees her to the door and promises to have the new press releases done by the next afternoon. 

It’s different from being with Cassie, who liked to lie next to him and talk afterwards, even though she wasn’t a cuddler. Dean never admits to missing being with someone who would wrap their limbs around him and snuggle silently before falling asleep entwined in each other's arms.

Tonight is worse than usual, because Dean can’t shake the uneasy feelings in his gut brought on by Crowley and his father. His mind won’t settle after Lisa leaves, and he ends up wrapping himself in an old blanket and turning on the TV. It’s the middle of another of Michael Novak’s ads, airtime ramping up as the primaries draw closer. Not that Novak will have any trouble getting his party’s candidacy, or winning the whole election, for that matter. Dean changes the channel

A late night comedy show is playing, and while Dean is amused by the sketches, he can’t find it in him to laugh. Dean both loves and hates late night TV, especially during campaign season. On one hand, politics always provides fodder for great jokes, but on the other hand those same jokes often become a PR nightmare. It keeps him employed, he supposes.

Dean keeps watching, but stops paying attention, his mind drifting lazily between his father, the work he needs to catch up on tomorrow, wondering if Cassie still has the old coffee maker and if she would let him take it for the apartment, and an errant thought about his brother, who he hadn’t seen since the last confrontation with his father, over four years ago. 

Thinking about Sam brings Dean around to thoughts about his stats, and then Mom, and wondering if she would be as disappointed in the way he turned out as Dad is. John’s sons were supposed to become lawyers. Their genes were modified before they were born so they would have all the traits necessary to excel in their legal careers. Neither one of them became lawyers. Dean, because he’s a bust, his genetic engineering failed to set him down the right path; and Sam - well, Sam because he  _ wanted _ to be a bust.

The comedy show turns into an infomercial for special bags that keep your vegetable fresh, but Dean is wrapped up in his thoughts and barely notices. He doesn’t hear his phone ring until the fourth or fifth chime. He frowns at the phone just as it stops ringing and wonders who could possibly be calling at this time of night. The phone starts up again almost immediately, a number with a Cleveland area code that Dean doesn’t recognize. 

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Dean Winchester?”

“Uh, yes. Speaking.”

“Mr. Winchester, my name is Julia Weeks and I’m calling from Fairview Hospital. You’re listed as the emergency contact for Mr. John Winchester.”

Dean feels his blood start to turn to ice.

“Yes, he’s my dad.”

“I’m sorry Mr. Winchester, but there’s been an accident.”

~~

Dean is frozen. He sits in the mostly empty waiting room after ID-ing the body, toying with his cell phone. John Winchester is dead.

Suspected of driving under the influence, the doctor informed him when he first arrived at the hospital. Dean didn’t bother to mention exactly how much he had witnessed his father drinking earlier that night. He didn’t bother to mention that he could have stopped his father from ever climbing behind that wheel, but didn’t.

There was another car, he finds out later. A teenage couple, out on a date, both in critical condition. They think the driver will make it. His date is not looking as hopeful.

Dean scrolls through the contacts on his phone. Who is he supposed to call - his soon-to-be ex-wife? His boss who he also happens to be sleeping with? His not-related-by-blood Aunt and Uncle who he hasn’t spoken to in months and who hate his dad with vehement passion? He finally lands on Sam’s name. 

“You’ve reached the voicemail of * _ Sam Winchester _ *. To leave a message, please begin speaking after the tone.”

Of course, Sam’s phone goes straight to the automated voicemail message. It’s pure luck that the number still belongs to him at all. Dean clears his throat.

“Hey Sammy. It’s me. Dean. I don’t know where you are, and I know we haven’t talked in a long time, but, uh, there’s been an accident. It’s Dad. He. Well. He didn’t make it. And I - Just - Call me. Please.”

Dean cuts off the phone call, letting his hand drop down into his lap. He thinks there is still some paperwork or something he needs to complete. 

“Um, hello?”

Dean realizes he has been staring blankly into space for several minutes when a warm voice cuts through the blurry fog in his brain. He looks up at the tall woman peering down at him with a concerned look in her eyes. She is dressed in smart business casual, her blonde curls looped into a loose bun at the back of her neck, a lanyard around her neck with a badge identifying her as an employee of the hospital. 

“Oh, hey.” The woman is not even the slightest bit taken in by Dean’s Charming Smile. She sinks into a chair next to him and leans forward with a non-nonsense expression.

“Are you ok?” 

Dean prepares a flip comment in response, but the blonde narrows her eyes as she stares him down. Dean sighs.

“I honestly don’t know. My dad just died.”

“I’m sorry.” The woman rests her hand over Dean’s arm, her touch grounding him. “Do you have someone you can call?”

Dean laughs ruefully. 

“I was just trying to call my brother. He hasn’t picked up the phone in four years, though, why would he start now?”

The woman’s eyes are filled with tender compassion. “That sucks. Sorry. What about your wife?” Dean looks down at the wedding band still in place on his left hand and swallows.

“Ex-wife. It’s… complicated,” he mutters to the floor.

“Yeah… I get complicated,” the woman sighs. 

“It was always just me and my brother,” Dean blurts out and starts babbling. “The two of us against the world. But then Sam fought with my dad, and it was bad, really bad, and he took off. And it was just me and my dad left, and I tried, I tried so hard, but -” Dean’s voice cracks. He swallows again, blinking back the sting in his eyes. The woman rubs her hand across his arm, comforting.

“It’s going to be ok.”

“How can you say that? You don’t know me,” Dean scoffs harshly.

“No, I don’t, but I work in a hospital and I see a lot of people and a lot of brokenness and a lot of loss. I’m not saying that it’s going to be easy, or that it’s ever going to stop hurting, but you are going to make it through this,” the woman replies. Dean searches her face for a sign that she’s mocking him, but he finds only firm conviction. He looks back down at the grimy waiting room floor, tracing swirls of dirt with his eyes.

“Shit. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be dumping this shit on you,” Dean mumbles. The woman lets out an amused huff of air.

“If I had a problem with shit, then I’m in the wrong profession,” she says with a lopsided smile. Dean starts to smile back when a sudden thought flashes through his mind and his smile freezes.

“Hey, thanks, but I’m not, you know, looking for anything right now…” Dean trails off when the blonde lifts an incredulous eyebrow at him.

“You seriously think I hit on married dudes with dead relatives in the hospital waiting room? Plus,” she nods at Dean’s left hand, where his wedding ring glints smugly up at him. “I don’t do complicated.” 

Dean flushes with embarrassment. “Sorry. Really. Um, sorry,” Dean stammers.

The woman laughs. “You’re too cute.”

“Dean,” he fills in, extending his hand. The woman grips it in a firm shake.

“Jess.” She stands and adjusts the edge of her sweater, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “I hope you find your brother,” she adds with a hopeful smile.

“Yeah.” Dean can’t muster up anything else to say. 

“And, Dean? Remember that it’s going to be ok.”

Dean ducks his head under the weight of her words and doesn’t watch as she walks away.

~~

Dean arrives back in his apartment just as the sun is coming up over the horizon. He stares blankly around the spartan little room. It seems unfair somehow that everything looks exactly the same as it did before his father died. He just stands and stares for a long moment.

He wanders into the kitchen opening and closing cabinets that are mostly empty by varying degrees. A mostly full bottle of Johnnie Walker eventually ends up in Dean’s hands and he looks down at it with a gruesome smile twisting his face. 

Three over-filled glasses of whiskey later, Dean is curled up on the bed, mumbling into his phone.

“Sam? Sam, it’s me again. Dean. Your brother. Y’gotta call me, man. Need to talk t’ya. Dad. Sam, Dad’s dead. He’s fucking  _ dead _ . C’mon, Sam, just - I dunno. Call me.”

Dean thinks he ends the call when he paws at the phone, but he’s not entirely sure and doesn’t care enough to check.

Two glasses after that, the phone rings. It’s not Sam. Lisa, probably calling because Dean is supposed to be at work. Dean sends the call to voicemail.

Somewhere halfway through his sixth glass, Dean needs to pee. He punches the bathroom door a few times when it sticks.

“You know what? Fuck you, Sam. You fucking left us. You think you’re so much better, huh? Too good to be a mod? Yeah, well, fuck you.”

Dean is pouring glass number seven when the front door slams open. 

“Are you drunk?” Cassie gasps, her eyes raking over last night’s disheveled suit that Dean threw back on before driving to the hospital, his bloodshot eyes, and the now mostly empty bottle of Johnnie Walker in his hand.

“What’re you doing here, Cassie?” Dean snarls. Cassie steps forward and deftly lifts the glass out of Dean’s hand before he can take a drink and snatches the bottle from his other fist.

“Lisa called me when you didn’t show up to work. Do you want to explain why the hell you’re drunk at 11:30 in the morning?”

“Not really.” Dean makes a halfhearted grab for his drink. “You’re not my wife anymore, none of your business.”

Cassie sighs. She turns to pour the whiskey down the kitchen sink and looks at Dean sadly.

“Just because I don’t want to be married to you doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, Dean. You’re  _ drunk _ . You never drink. And you never miss work. And Lisa said that you screened her call? You have never missed a call from Lisa, ever. What is going on with you?”

Dean starts to giggle, the vibrations in his chest becoming painful as the hysterical laughter shakes through him. He sinks down to sit on the bed, twisting the sheets in his fists.

“Kind of ironic, huh?” Dean’s twisted half-smile is cold and cruel. “Drunk. Just like him.”

“Just like who?” Cassie asks patiently.

“Dad.”

“Your dad is drunk?”

“Probably. He was drunk.”

“He was drunk? When, at the event last night?”

“Yeah. And after. During the accident.”

Cassie freezes. She slowly kneels down in front of Dean, catching his eye.

“Your dad was in an accident?” Her voice is soft and even, calm, controlled, just like always. Dean’s hysterical giggles stop. He looks at the woman who is soon to be his ex-wife.

“Yes.” Dean stops. Cassie waits. “He, uh, he was driving. Drunk. He hit a couple of kids.” Another long, long pause. “I had to identify the body.”

Cassie threads her fingers through his and squeezes his palm tightly.

“Ok,” she breathes. “Ok, Dean, we’re going to get through this.”

Dean throws her hand away, sneering at her.

“‘We’? There’s no ‘we’ anymore. He was my dad, I’ll deal with it,” he snaps. Cassie just sighs and starts tugging at his clothes and helps him to lie back in his bed.

“I’ll call Lisa,” Cassie tells him as Dean passes out in an alcohol induced haze.

~~

John’s boss calls the next morning to ask when the funeral service is. Dean hasn’t even thought about a funeral, he didn’t think anyone would want to come. 

Lisa tries to give him some time off of work, but Dean needs the routine, needs the distraction. People are skittish around him, and Dean isn’t surprised. He knows he must look as haunted as he feels.

When Dean hears on the news that the passenger in the car his dad hit sucumbed to his injuries, the only thought in his head is  _ I could have stopped him _ .

Dean dreams about it every night. He takes the drink out of John’s hand. He calls a cab. He picks his father up from the office instead of letting him drive. He tells the bartender to stop serving John. He takes the keys from the valet. He stops screwing up and making his father drink to forget about his disappointment of a son.

He goes back in time and stops his mother from dying.

He wakes up and everything is the same.

He calls Sam again, and again the call goes straight to voicemail. 

Sam’s last words to their father were  _ you can’t tell me who I am _ .

The last thing Dean said was to point out how drunk he was. This memory brings Dean right back to envisioning the million ways he failed to save his father.

Anna calls when she sees the obituary in the paper. 

“Oh, Dean, I’m so sorry,” she sighs over the phone. 

“Nah, it’s fine,” Dean insists, sinking down into the messy, unwashed sheets of his bed, clutching his phone to his ear.

“It’s not fine,” Anna replies, and Dean can hear the roll of her eyes through her voice.

“You don’t even like my dad,” he retorts.

“No one  _ likes _ your dad. John Winchester is a bastard,” Anna concedes, “but plenty of people like  _ you _ . Me, for example. He’s your dad, and I’m your friend, and I want you to be ok. You’re going through a rough time right now.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and curls in on himself, grateful for his lonely apartment for once.

“Thanks, Anna.”

“Please tell me that you’re going to have someone with you at the funeral,” Anna pleads. Dean rolls over and groans at the thought of the upcoming funeral.

“Lisa and Cassie are both going to be there.”

“I wasn’t exactly thinking your boss or your ex-wife. You have to have some family or something.”

“No one who would be interested in coming,” Dean says bitterly. Anna sighs. She apologizes profusely for not being able to make it to the funeral herself.

“I’m so sorry I can’t be there for you. I’m still in Chicago visiting my brother, otherwise you know I’d come.”

“Your Novak brother?” Dean is always intrigued by Anna’s connection to the illustrious presidential legacy.

“Still the only brother I have,” Anna reminds him teasingly. “Michael says he needs a handler. This whole campaign is getting ridiculous.”

“I thought old President Novak made all his Gens political machines, or something,” Dean muses, recalling the stories about the former President Charles Novak who went mad after his wife died and commissioned a series of genetically engineered children to carry on his legacy. Anna’s mother was the surrogate who carried the last of the Novak gens.

“Castiel’s a bit of an odd duck,” Anna says, keeping her voice carefully neutral. “It’s a long story.”

Dean doesn’t push the issue.

The next day Dean receives a bouquet of flowers, tall slender spears with vibrant scarlet blossoms creeping up their lengths. 

_ Gladiolus are the gladiator’s flower, for strength. Love, Anna _ , the card reads. Dean puts the flowers in a chipped coffee mug half-filled with water and places it on the kitchen counter, a startling splash of color against the dreary backdrop.

Lisa comes over one night and they make love and while he is slowly thrusting into her and listening to her soft encouragements and gasps of breath Dean forgets about accidents and funerals and failures for a little while. Lisa leaves promptly after and Dean shivers alone through dreams chased by nameless terrors.

The funeral takes place on Saturday morning. It’s a bright, crisp, clear late winter day. There is no real service, nothing more than an urn on a pedestal at the funeral home. Dean wears a dark suit and his red tie.

A few people from John’s office mill around in their sharp suits and slicked back hair, men and women alike. They talk in loud voices punctuated by hearty guffaws of laughter and slaps on the back. This is nothing more than a networking event to them, John’s death means nothing more than a vacant position in the company that needs to be filled.

Lisa, Matt, and Ben arrive, dressed in the requisite formal clothing and wearing appropriately sombre expressions. Dean shakes Matt’s hand, graciously accepting his condolences, and can’t help but smile when Ben pulls him down for a tight hug. Lisa places her hand on her husband’s shoulder and guides him away while giving Dean a laden glance, which Dean only acknowledges with a slow blink.

Cassie is her usual calm, efficient self, checking on the catering staff, chatting with the funeral director, making sure Dean doesn’t slip off and lock himself in a back room. Dean is grateful for her presence, and wishes, not for the first time, that their marriage could work. If only compatibility on paper could translate to love in real life. Dean knows that it doesn’t.

Dean attempts to talk to a young woman who Dean thinks might be a secretary at his dad’s office. She dabs fake tears from the corners of her perfectly made up eyes and tries to subtly bring the conversation around to Dean’s current relationship status. Dean’s not quite appropriate response is cut short by something smacking into the back of his head.

“Ow!” Dean whirls around with a scowl and a sharp retort on his tongue, only to clamp his jaw shut when he is confronted by the icy glare and crossed arms of a woman who intimidates the hell out of him, despite being half a foot shorter.

“Dean Winchester, do you want to explain to me why I have to find out about your daddy’s funeral from an obituary in the newspaper?” The woman lifts an eyebrow and narrows her eyes. Dean swallows.

“I’m - uh - gonna go see what’s - um - over here-” the secretary stutters as she slowly backs away from the confrontation.

“What’re you doing here, Ellen?” Dean says weakly. 

“Did you really think we would miss this?” The woman accuses and crosses her arms over her chest. “Why didn’t you call us?”

“Why’d you want to go to Dad’s funeral, anyway?” Dean deflects. “You hate Dad. Last time you saw him, Bobby threatened him. With a shotgun.”

“We ain’t here for him, ya idjit,” a gruff voice says, with another accompanying smack to the back of Dean’s head.

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean greets the man, happy to see that he’s dressed in his usual blue jeans and plaid instead of a funeral suit. Dean doesn’t think he could take seeing his surrogate uncle in formalwear. Ellen tugs him into a fierce hug.

“Don’t you ever,  _ ever _ , leave us out of the loop like that again,” Ellen orders quietly into Dean’s ear, and Dean leans his forehead onto her shoulder and allows himself to be held. “Just because you’re all grown up now doesn’t mean you can’t let someone help you out now and then.”

“‘S not what Dad would say,” Dean huffs.

“Your daddy is the biggest idjit of ‘em all,” Bobby sneers. Dean pulls himself out of Ellen’s arms and shakes his head sadly.

“Where’s your brother?” Ellen asks, slipping her arm through Bobby’s. Dean cringes at the mention of Sam. Ellen narrows her eyes. “Tell me you called him, at least.”

“Of course I called. About a dozen times, straight to voicemail,” Dean gripes.

“Oh, honey,” Ellen sighs and pats his arm.

“He’ll come back,” Bobby assures him. 

“Sure,” Dean half-heartedly agrees. 

People around them are starting to give them those long, disdainful looks that Dean remembers from growing up in Bobby and Ellen’s care. Dean shifts his shoulders under their eyes, earning him a withering look from both his companions. He’s incredibly grateful when a soft touch on his shoulder interrupts whatever Bobby was going to say to him. He looks over to see Lisa, family in tow, sidling up alongside him.

“Hey,” Dean greets her shakily. “Lisa, this is my Uncle Bobby and Aunt Ellen. This is Lisa Braeden, my boss, her husband Matthew, their son, Ben.” 

There is a round of polite handshakes.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Lisa says with one of her neutral politician’s smiles. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Likewise,” Bobby says, wrinkling his nose. “You’re the one who’s going to bust into Congress to save all us norms.”

“Bobby,” Dean reprimands wearily.

“Someone has to,” Matt cuts in, smiling blandly. “If we can’t represent ourselves, I can personally vouch for Lisa as the next best choice. And I’m certain we owe Dean’s dedication to the cause to your influence, so, thank you both.”

“Sure wasn’t thanks to that bastard John Winchester,” Ellen mutters. Bobby elbows her in the ribs to hide his own smirk of agreement. Everyone else ignores the snub to the man at his own funeral. Ellen’s assessment is nothing but true.

“Sorry we can’t stay, but I’ve got to take Ben to a little league game this afternoon,” Matt explains, patting Ben on the head and earning an exasperated eye roll from his son in return. They excuse themselves, leaving Lisa behind next to Dean.

A smartly dressed lawyer stumbles into Bobby, spilling his drink down Bobby’s flannel. The lawyer sneers.

“Hey, watch it,” he snaps. His companion wraps a manicured hand around his arm and tugs him away.

“Aw, leave him alone, Dick,” she simpers. “You know people like  _ them  _ can’t help being clumsy.”

Lisa has to clench her hand down around Dean’s shoulder to stop him from taking a swing. Bobby looks enraged, and Ellen stares Lisa down.

“Honey, if you’re really planning on fixing things around here, you better be starting sooner rather than later,” Ellen advises. She turns to Dean before Lisa can reply. “We’ll get out of your hair. But we  _ are _ going to have a nice long sit down later on, you hear?”

Dean nods and receives another tight hug in return. Bobby pats him on the shoulder and Dean promises to call them later. They march out of the funeral home side by side, heads held high.

“I like them,” Lisa said, watching the couple depart. “I’m a little scared of them, but I like them.”

“Dad would be so embarrassed,” Dean says guiltily, fiddling with his tie. 

“They really care about you,” Lisa adds, giving him a soft look. Dean looks away. 

The room starts to clear out, the strange business men and women that Dean doesn’t know - and has doubts about whether his Dad knew, either - were slowly filing out the door. Cassie is gone, departing with a chaste kiss to Dean’s cheek and a firm shake of Lisa’s hand. The staff of the funeral home is starting their rounds of clean-up, piling half-empty glasses smudged with lipstick onto trays.

Lisa glances around, then tugs Dean into a small room that looks like it might be some sort of coat closet. She slides the door closed behind them before pressing up to Dean and sliding her fingers through his hair and cradling the sides of his head in her hands.

“Are you ok?” she breathes against his neck. Dean frowns, but doesn’t pull away.

“We’re at my Dad’s funeral,” he protests.

“Yeah, and you may not realize it, but you look like a mess,” Lisa points out, nibbling at his ear. “You definitely need some stress relief.”

“Lis,” Dean starts to say, but the words turn into a breathy exhale when Lisa loosens his tie, unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt, and starts to nuzzle soft, wet kisses along his throat.

“Let me take care of you, Dean,” Lisa breathes, her breath cool over his hot skin.

Dean’s eyes squeeze shut as Lisa sinks to her knees, her hands dragging down his chest until her fingers tangle with the fly of his pants, pulling the zipper down so she can slide her hand inside. His head tips back and knocks against the wall at the sensation of Lisa’s hands, her lips, her tongue. It’s all too easy to welcome the blankness in his head as he accepts the pleasure she offers, the wave of his orgasm momentarily washing away his guilt and sorrow.

Lisa gives him a quick smile as she dabs at the corners of her mouth, tucking Dean back in his pants before dashing out. The funeral home is deserted when Dean finally trudges out the door, alone.

~~

The buzz of Dean’s phone wakes him before his alarm on Monday morning. He blinks sleep out of his eyes as he opens the text message from Anna.

_ Turn on the news _ , the message reads. The phone buzzes again.

_ DO NOT go outside. _

Dean swings his feet off the side of the bed. He puts one foot in front of the other, slowly moving, one step at a time, across the room towards the TV. It feels like walking to his execution. 

The TV flips on.

“...her manager of Public Relations. We have not been able to reach Ms. Braeden or Mr. Winchester for comment at this time.” 

The newscaster drones on as the banner reading ‘ _ SCANDAL! Congressional candidate caught in affair with staffer!’ _ scrolls across the screen.

Dean closes his eyes and chokes on the bile rising in his throat.

  
  



	3. Beaten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last warning for the things mentioned in Chapter One. (Divorce, infidelity, Dean/Lisa, death, and Dean taking a lot of Shit from the universe.) Next chapter things start to turn around a little, I promise.

_ Turn on the news. _

_ DO NOT go outside. _

Dean’s life is crashing down around him. He looks at his phone again. Aside from Anna’s two text messages he has 72 missed calls, most from various media outlets. Dean heaves in a breath, letting it trickle out of his nostrils slowly, trying to calm the churning in his stomach. He turns his attention back to the television.

The morning news program has moved on to the overly cheerful weatherman predicting light showers in the afternoon. The affair has been relegated to the scrolling bar at the bottom of the screen, which also flashes news about the Cavaliers’ latest lost and the record breaking sales of the newest iPhone. Dean flips channels, but none of the morning news programs are currently gossiping about the scandal and Dean can’t afford to wait. He shuts off the TV and flips open his laptop.

The article pops up immediately.

‘ _ POLITICAL WIFE CAUGHT IN SORDID SEX SCANDAL WITH MARRIED STAFFER  _

_ The Haverson Post by F. Crowley _

_ Lisa Braeden, Ohio state representative and presumed Senatorial candidate, was confirmed by sources to be involved in a sexual relationship with Dean Winchester, a member of her staff. Braeden, 35,  is the wife of high school math teacher Matthew Braeden, with whom she has one son, age 9. Winchester, 33, is Ms. Braeden’s manager of Public Relations, and has been married to Cleveland Nightly News executive producer Cassandra Robinson for three years.  _

_ Braeden and Winchester have been closely involved since attending Case Western Reserve University together, although it is unclear how long their relationship has been one of a sexual nature. The source has provided photographic evidence of Braeden entering and leaving her paramour’s separate residence, perhaps procured for facilitating their romantic trysts. This past weekend, photos have surfaced of the candidate providing sexual favors to her employee at a public function. Warning for graphic content in the images below. _ ’

There are pictures. The pictures of Lisa entering and leaving Dean’s apartment building are months old. Dean recognizes Lisa’s old haircut, before she added highlights and changed her bangs. There are pictures from the Christmas party, Dean’s arm wrapped around Lisa’s waist as he whispers in her ear.

There are pictures from Saturday, at the funeral. Lisa mouthing Dean’s neck, her hands wrapped in his red tie. Lisa kneeling in front of Dean. Dean leaning back, eyes closed, lips parted, fingers threaded through Lisa’s hair. There must have been a window in that damned coat closet. Dean hadn’t noticed.

Crowley had known. All along he had known, during that first phone call, at the fundraiser. He must have been waiting for something bigger, something better, something to blow his simple political sex scandal into an unstoppable viral monster. 

_ ‘I expect great things from Ms. Braeden,’ _ Dean remembers Crowley saying, remembers his smirk.  _ ‘I’m sure my investment will pay off.’ _

Dean feels like he should either laugh or cry. Anything but just sit in frozen silence, unable to tear his eyes away from the salacious words of the article in front of him. His phone buzzes and he barely resists the urge to toss it across the room. Unknown number, Cleveland area code. He doesn’t answer.

The phone stops its vibrations after a while, lighting up to notify him of another missed call, and Dean holds it in his hands and stares at it. He needs to make the call.

“What do you want?” Lisa’s voice is weary at the other end of the line.

“You saw it?” Dean asked, not bothering to specify what. Lisa sighs.

“You can’t call me anymore, Dean,” she says in reply. She definitely saw. Dean’s heart thuds heavily in his too-tight chest.

“What? No, we have to fix this, Lis.”

“We? There is no we.” Lisa’s voice is steel. 

“It’s a  _ press _ issue, I fucking  _ manage  _ your  _ press _ ,” Dean pleads.

“You don’t work for me anymore, Dean. Gary’s handling it.”

“Handling it? Really? That idiot’s got a way to spin this?”

There’s a heavy silence over the phone. Dean can hear his own hoarse breathing.

“I’m sorry,” she says, finally. Another pause. “You know I can’t let it look like I was cheating on Matt because he’s a norm. That would destroy everything we’ve worked for.”

“But you-” Dean sputters, his head replaying all of Lisa’s griping about Matt’s genetic deficiencies. The reality behind her statement hits him only seconds after. If Dean wanted to laugh or cry before, now he wants to vomit. “You’re going to make sure people know that I’m no better than a norm.”

“It’s for the greater good,” Lisa reasons.

“What, now I’m just some poor bust you took pity on?” Dean’s voice raises as his anger grows. “Gonna tell everyone I offered to be your fuck-toy if you just gave me a job, ‘cause that’s all I’m good for? Blessed Lisa, saving norms and busts alike.”

“Tell me you’d spin it any differently,” she snipes back. “I’m just doing what’s smart. Good-bye, Dean.”

The connection cuts off.

“Fuck you, too!” Dean screams at the phone, tossing it onto the floor. He kicks the bathroom door when it sticks and heaves the contents of his stomach into the toilet. 

Dean’s father is dead. His brother is missing. His wife left him. His lover abandoned him. He is the object of a highly publicized and rather damning scandal. He is unemployed. He is probably unemployable. Soon the whole world will know about his greatest shame.

Dean stumbles into the kitchen and starts throwing open cabinets in search of his bottle of whiskey before remembering that Cassie poured it down the drain the last time she was here. He leans on the counter, his face nearly brushing up to the stalks of scarlet gladiolus blooming ironically in their humble mug.

_ Strength _ , Dean thinks bitterly, regarding the flowers. Now even Anna knows how weak he really is.

Dean’s only window doesn’t face the front of the building, so he can’t look outside to see if the press is gathered there, waiting for a chance to jump on the scandalous politician’s lover, but Anna’s earlier warning indicated that the hounds are there. He’s suffocating inside. He needs some air, needs to get out, to do something, maybe hit something, anything to relieve the tension built up in his body.

The phone buzzes again. Dean picks it up off the floor and throws it. It hits the wall with a dull thud before crashing to the ground. The silence lasts only a moment before it starts to ring again. Dean finally picks it up the third time the insistent vibration rattles against the floorboards.

_ Ellen Singer _ the screen announces. Dean groans and tosses the phone back to the floor without answering. More people to witness his humiliation. More people to disappoint. He should be grateful his father isn’t alive to see this.

Dean sits back in front of the TV. The local news has switched to morning talk shows, and of course the hot gossip of the day is the pretty young Senatorial candidate from Ohio and her steamy boy toy. It’s like watching a train wreck in progress, only he is the train. Dean’s not sure whether to smirk or vomit again when a Barbara Walters wannabe comments on how well endowed he is, accompanied by a lewd wink. 

A pounding at the door startles Dean out of his self-flagellation. Fuck. Dean hopes that if the press has gotten inside, they will go away if he doesn’t answer the door.

The pounding doesn’t stop.

“Dean Winchester, if you don’t open this door right the hell now, I’m gonna go get my shotgun out of the truck and bust it open, ya hear?” 

Dean knows for a fact that Ellen never makes idle threats, so he scrambles to the door. Ellen bursts through the door like a whirlwind, Bobby storming in after.

“What the hell is wrong with you, boy?” Bobby shouts. “It’s like a pack of goddamned jackals out there.”

“Oh god, Bobby please tell me you didn’t say anything to them,” Dean moans at the confirmation of the presence of reporters hungry for gossip at his door.

“Nothin’ they didn’t need to hear,” Bobby snarls, his ire directed more towards the press than Dean.

Dean is suddenly snatched into a bone-crunchingly tight hug.

“I do not ever,  _ ever _ want to see any photos of you like that again,” Ellen whispers harshly in his ear as she squeezes him. “I may need to invest in a little bleach for my brain to clean out those images of my baby boy.”

Dean lets out a laugh that sounds more like a strangled sob as Ellen releases him from her grip.

“You might just be the stupidest fucker to ever walk this earth,” Bobby declares. “You dump your wife to screw your boss?”

God, that’s exactly what it’s going to look like when the divorce hits the news.

“I wouldn’t. That’s not what happened,” he protests.

“How did it happen, honey,” Ellen asks, tugging him down to sit on the edge of the bed and settling herself next to him, her eyes boring into his, intense in their concern. 

Dean’s story sounds like nothing but excuses to his ears. Ellen gently rubs his arm when Dean stops talking.

“You definitely are the stupidest fucker to ever walk this earth,” Ellen nods, her voice harsh while her hand soothes.

“Yep.” Bobby agrees from his spot across the room a little ways, feet rooted to the floor, arms crossed over his chest.

“That sob story is not going to get you out of an ounce of trouble,” Ellen adds.

“Nope,” Bobby chimes in.

“Thanks, Bobby, Ellen,” Dean says dryly. She gives him an arch look.

“Just sayin’ it like it is.”

“Just say it like it is, then. I’m fucked up. They fucked up when they messed with my genes. None of this would be happening if I was the way I’m supposed to be,” Dean laments. “Fuck, I’m glad Dad isn’t around to see this.”

“Ok, I stand corrected,” Bobby snorts. “John Winchester is the stupidest fucker to ever walk this earth, and you’re a fool if you’re listening to him even after he’s dead and gone. There’s nothing wrong with your genes, Dean, you’re not broken.”

“That’s easy for you to say, you’re  _ norm _ ,” Dean spits out, like the word is poison. Bobby and Ellen both stare him down, their twin looks of disappointment and disdain the worst blow he’s felt yet. “Sorry,” he grates out, ducking his head to avoid their eyes. Ellen sighs heavily.

“We’ll set Jo loose on you when she comes home for Christmas,” Ellen promises with a wicked glint in her eye. “Now, come on, show me where you keep your suitcases so we can start getting you packed up.”

Dean’s head jerks up in surprise. “What?”

“Just ‘cause you’re a grand jackass don’t mean we’re not going to help you,” Bobby informs him. “You’re gonna come home with us, is what you’re gonna do.”

“That’s not -” Dean stutters, “Bobby, I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t need someone to pick me up and take me home when I screw up.”

“Oh, get down off your high horse, boy. You’ve started thinking you’re better than us, but you ain’t. I know for a fact you got nowhere else to go, so when you stop being all high and mighty maybe you’ll realize that you’ve got family that cares for you and there’s no shame in that.”

Dean can’t bring himself to meet Bobby’s eye.

“How can you call me family? I’m - shit.”

“Oh, honey, that’s what makes family family,” Ellen scolds gently. “You fight and you holler and you ignore each other and treat each other like dirt, and at the end of the day when things go down, you’re right there to pick each other up. Tell me you’d do any differently if it was Sam sitting where you are.”

Dean blinks the sting out of his eyes. Memories of long afternoons of chasing Sam around the rusty junkers littering the salvage yard filter into his mind. Memories of Bobby tucking the brothers into his spare bed when their father failed to return at the end of the work day to pick them up. Of a gruff, but loving woman slowly making a home in the hearts of the lonely old mechanic and the two lonely boys, bringing with her a fierce little sister who did not hesitate to take her two surrogate brothers in hand. 

Dean remembers having a family, and it dawns on him for the first time that they don’t have to be just memories. 

“Alright, enough,” Dean says, his voice rough. “Stop getting your emotions all over my apartment.”

Ellen shakes her head and pats his shoulder, while Bobby scoffs and mutters something about whose emotions are getting all over the place.

~~

Ellen and Bobby leave to get food for Dean, who elects to stay inside rather than braving the reporters still lingering around the front of the apartment building. Cassie calls while they are gone.

“They’re calling me too,” Cassie informs him, referring to the press. “Exclusive interview with scorned wife, and all that.”

“Sounds like something you would write,” Dean teases. Cassie just sighs.

“I wish you had thought it all through before,” she tells him tiredly, but not bitterly. “Me, Matt, Ben, we’re all a part of this now. Not to mention Lisa. And even the country, if you want to go that far. There’s no way she’s getting elected now.”

“It wasn’t all my fault,” Dean defends.

“I’m not blaming you. Just, in retrospect.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. Dean’s voice drops. “You’re not angry?”

“Of course I’m angry,” Cassie snaps in demonstration of that emotion. “But I’m not surprised. It’s not like you were subtle. And,” Cassie’s voice softens, “you were so unhappy. I was too.”

Dean swallows.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

They don’t say much after that. Dean explains about going to South Dakota with Ellen and Bobby, and Cassie agrees that is a good idea. She promises to go over the paperwork for the divorce with the lawyer, and to stay away from the press. Dean trusts her completely. 

And then it is over. Dean feels, for the first time, that it is really and truly over between him and Cassie. It hurts, of course, but it is a slow, sad, expected sort of ache, and it’s accompanied by a curious lightness and an assurance that this is right and good. It’s nothing like how Dean feels about Lisa, which is closer to nausea than pain.

The nausea returns when Dean is sitting on his bed eating the takeout Bobby and Ellen brought back and Bobby answers a knock at the door. After a brief exchange with whoever it is outside, and Bobby turns around with a baffled expression on his face and a large fruit arrangement in his arms. Dean reads the attached card and almost vomits again.

“It’s a thank you note,” he chokes, “from Crowley.”

Bobby growls and almost dashes the daintily arranged, chocolate dipped fruit onto the floor, but Ellen quickly pops a chocolate covered strawberry in her mouth before her husband has a chance.

“Well, I’m not giving that rat the satisfaction of gloating,” she says around a full mouth. “What’s the point in letting all that chocolate go to waste?”

Dean shrugs in concession, but can’t bring himself to eat a bite of the fruit.

The next day all of Dean’s belongings are packed into his two suitcases and a handful of small-ish boxes, ready to be loaded into the car. Bobby and Ellen have already left for home. Cassie promised to collect the rest of the furniture after he is gone, and Dean suspects she means that she will hire trash collectors to take it all directly to the dump. He still regrets never getting a table, even if he knows it would just become trash.

The reporters have mostly given up on trying to corner Dean for an interview, so Dean is able to slip down to the garage with his suitcases and boxes with minimal interference, aside from a few openly gawking neighbors. The feeling of pure relief and even hopefulness when he slides behind the wheel of the Impala surprises him. It’s been far too long since it was just him and his baby on the open road and he feels a thrill shoot through him at the prospect. 

The long drive from Cleveland to Sioux Falls is everything Dean hoped for. There’s a dusting of snow clinging stubbornly to the fields that line the road, giving everything an otherworldly sparkle. He rolls down the windows and lets the cool winter wind slide across his arm and tickle his ear as he speeds down the wide, flat roads of the countryside. He belts out wrong lyrics to songs at the top of his lungs and drums on the steering wheel during guitar solos. When he finally pulls through the gate advertising Singer Salvage and Auto, Dean feels wrung clean by the wind and the road and the wide open spaces of the midwest.

Bobby runs an admiring hand down the hood of the Impala when Dean parks her in front of the house.

“Glad to see you’re treating one girl right, at least,” he says.

“Probably the only thing Dad isn’t disappointed in me about,” Dean can’t help but grin as he eyes the car appreciatively. Bobby grunts noncommittally. 

Ellen serves up homemade chili for dinner and Dean falls asleep in the same bedroom he and Sam shared as children.

Jo comes home a week later, greeting Dean with a punch to the gut. 

“You’re such an ass,” she informs him. Dean rubs his sore belly.

“Nice to see you, too, Jo,” he snarks. 

“I hope Cassie sucks you dry in the divorce,” she says, dumping her luggage into his hands to carry up to her room.

“You’re a comedian, Jo,” Dean calls over his shoulder as he lugs the heavy bags up the stairs. “That’s what you’ve been doing in New York all this time? Practicing your standup routine?”

“Your fault for giving me flawless material to work with!” she answers cheerily.

When the 11pm news announces that Ohio State Representative Lisa Braeden officially announced that she will not run for Congress in the upcoming year, Jo silently hands Dean a beer and changes the channel on the TV.

By midnight they’re curled up side by side on the couch with vaguely eggnog flavored glasses of rum, watching  _ It’s a Wonderful Life _ and taking a drink every time someone says “wings” or sings ‘Buffalo Gals’ because “it’s Christmas, Dean, and we’re going to be festive, goddamnit.” They trade insults and endearments back and forth, and it’s almost like they’re kids again, except that Sam’s absence leaves a gaping hole in Dean’s happiness.

By two-a.m. they’ve moved on to  _ Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer _ and Jo is ranting about her work as a career counselor for disadvantaged norms in New York City. 

“The institutionalized geneism in this country is a  _ travesty _ ,” she laments, leaning her head on Dean’s shoulder. “So, really, it’s not entirely your fault that you’re such an asshole. You’re just a product of society.”

“So I can blame my shit life on the government?” Dean clinks his glass against hers. “I’ll drink to that.”

“It’s like, the misfit toys,” Jo slurs. “You’re a  _ misfit toy _ , Dean.”

By three-a.m. the local TV station has run out of Christmas specials, and Jo is petting Dean’s hair while he watches an infomercial guy somehow manage to fail at sitting down in a chair.

“Fuck the misfit toys,  _ that’s  _ me,” he points out, jerking his head away from Jo’s hand. “I’m infomercial guy.”

“Shh,” Jo soothes. “You can sit in a chair without throwing Cheetos all over the room. I’ve seen you.”

“No,” Dean grumbles. “I mean, I somehow fuck everything up. My brother, my dad, I even have all the right shit together to be a lawyer like I’m supposed to, and I still managed to fuck it up.”

“Shhhhh,” Jo shushes him, making another attempt to pet his head and causing a small scuffle. Their both too drunk to do any damage and resign to poking each others’ ribs and making grotesque faces.

Christmas morning dawns bright and early, with Jo passed out on the couch, drooling over one of Ellen’s kitschy holiday throw pillows, and Dean somehow having made it back to his bedroom, but not into his bed before he fell asleep. Ellen cranks up the volume of the radio as high as it will go and Bobby chuckles at the chorus of inarticulate groans that greet the cheery Christmas tunes.

“Go ‘way,” Jo moans into her drool-soaked pillow, one hand grabbing blindly onto a blanket tossed over the back of the couch and dragging it over her head. “Consider it my Christmas present.”

The sound of Dean slamming the bathroom door shut upstairs echoes through the house.

“How is it that my babies can’t even hold their liquor,” Ellen shakes her head sadly. Bobby presses a kiss to her cheek.

“Good parenting,” he tells her and Ellen rolls her eyes and smiles at her husband. 

Dean manages to drag himself down the stairs and drops into a chair at the kitchen table as Bobby pushes a mug of coffee into his hands. He grunts his appreciation. Ellen bodily drags Jo off the couch an hour later. There’s coffee, and breakfast, and Christmas songs, and presents. Ellen teases Dean and Jo about their hangovers and Bobby swears colorfully as he attempts to set up the new computer Jo bought him. _ I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas _ plays on the radio.

Ellen and Jo are comparing the books they gave each other as presents, and Bobby is napping off his computer battle in his armchair when Dean slips off with his cell phone. He dials Sam’s number and waits as the voicemail message plays.

“Hey, Sam. Merry Christmas. I’m at Uncle Bobby’s and, well, I was thinking about you, so, um, Merry Christmas, I guess,” he says lamely, and hangs up. Dean wanders back towards the living room where the rest of his family is gathered, watching the peaceful tableau and feeling warm and comfortable and lonely and lost all at the same time. 


	4. Second Chances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets a new job, which goes better than he hoped. He also reunites with his brother, which is not a good as he hoped.
> 
> Warning for implied drug use and Ruby being a manipulative bitch. 
> 
> Also a note that I am not a politician, or a geneticist, so the science-y genetic stuff is 100% made up, and the politics are as vague as I can make them.

Bobby lets Dean work on cars in the garage, the old clunkers that folks drag in presenting interesting challenges to Dean’s mechanical creativity. Most of Bobby’s customers are other norms, with no money to buy new cars and just enough to pay one of their own to make the best of what they have. They eye Dean suspiciously, and the few who recognize him from his photos in the news have biting comments and smug smirks.

Dean starts browsing job search websites and classifieds. _Must provide stats/specs_ , every single listing demands in bold lettering. Some have minimum stat requirements, and others are limited to _career mods/gens only_. Dean looks over his own stat sheet and feels sick. His genetic modifications are the stock numbers for a career as a lawyer. One look at his numbers, and every potential employer will know that he’s a bust. He tries anyway.

For every ten applications he sends out, he receives nine no replies, and one polite, ‘ _Dear Mr. Winchester, unfortunately your genetic statistics do not meet the minimum standards for the position for which you applied_.’ One recruiter even called him just so say that she had heard about Dean on the news, and please stop sending in applications because no one in their right mind would hire him.

Three weeks into his job search, Dean calls Jo, back in New York after New Year’s, and demands to know exactly how the hell she finds jobs for norms with no stats whatsoever.

“It’s why they pay me the big bucks, Dean-o,” Jo tells him flippantly.

“Jo, you work for a non-profit. You have to share an apartment with three other people to make rent,” he points out.

“Yeah, well, I’m rich in awesome-ness. Maybe now you’ll have some appreciation for that.”

“Seriously, Jo, I’m asking for help here. How the hell do you do it? It seems like even fucking McDonalds wants you to prove that you have good stats for burger-flipping, or whatever.”

Jo sighs heavily.

“References and work experience are the good, old-fashioned, tried and true methods,” she offers. “But judging from how Lisa threw you under the bus, you don’t exactly have those, either. Don’t you have media contacts, or whatever?”

“None that will talk to me. I’m like, toxic, or something,” Dean laments. “Shit, if I was a lawyer, I could just send in my stat sheet and they’d probably hire me without even looking at my name. That’s what I get for being a fuck-up.”

“You’re not a lawyer ‘cause you hated it, not ‘cause you’re a fuck up,” Jo protests.

“That’s -” Dean pauses, the obvious solution hitting his head like a brick. “Jo, you’re a genius.”

“Why? What’d I say?” Jo sounds suspicious.

“If I was a _lawyer_ I wouldn’t be a _bust_ ,” Dean attempts to clarify.

“That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“You don’t make any sense.”

“Wow. That comeback has lawyer written all over it.”

“Shut up, Jo.”

“That one, too.”

“Look, it’s the perfect solution. Law is what I’m _supposed_ to be doing. Maybe my life will suck a little less if I actually go through with it. Maybe my dad would actually be proud of me for once,” Dean reasons.

“Your dad should want you to be happy,” Jo argues.

“Yeah, well, I gotta say that I’m not too happy being a bust,” Dean snorts. Jo sighs.

“Well, it’s your life, Dean. Just please don’t come whining to me about how much you hate law school. I already had to live through your pre-law classes in undergrad,” she says, resigned.

Dean rolls his eyes as he says his goodbyes, filled with new determination.

~~

“Dean, you hate law,” Ellen frowns when she sees the LSAT prep book lying on the kitchen table. “Do you even remember college? Because I sure remember your bitching.”

Dean glares at her from his place in front of the stove, where he’s browning chicken breasts for dinner.

“It’s what I’m _supposed_ to do. The whole fucking world thinks I’m a bust, thanks to Lisa. My dad _died_ thinking I’m a bust.” Dean swallowed, recalling the look of disappointment and faint disgust on John’s face the last time he saw his father alive. “Shit, he would be fucking furious if he saw what people are saying about me. I owe it to him to prove that I’m not a complete fuck up.”

“And you’re gonna do that by going to law school?” Bobby asks doubtfully. “What about what _you_ want?”

“I want to make my dad proud,” Dean snaps. “Is that really such a bad thing?”

His aunt and uncle fall silent. Dean sighs and pokes at his chicken.

“So, LSAT’s,” Ellen sighs, flipping through his study guide and wrinkling her nose.

“Yeah. They won’t even let you apply until you take them. There’s one in February, but I already missed the registration deadline. Next one’s not until June,” Dean recalls the detail about the exam.

“And what the hell are you going to do with yourself between now and June?” Bobby demands.

“Figured I’d try and work a little? Study, maybe take an LSAT course, that kind of thing.”

“I thought you couldn’t find a job,” Ellen points out. Bobby frowns at the look on Dean’s face when he peers hopefully across the kitchen.

“I can’t afford to hire you on, son,” Bobby lets him down gently. “We’re barely making ends meet as it is.”

Dean’s shoulders slump, but he nods. “I’ll find something,” he insists. His phone rings just as he is sliding the chicken off the pan and onto a plate. He gestures for Bobby and Ellen to help themselves to the meal as he pulls his phone out of his back pocket.

“Hullo?”

“Hi, Dean?”

Dean nearly trips in shock at the soft voice at the other end of the phone.

“ _Anna?_ ”

“Yes, it’s me,” Anna says, her voice lightly amused. “Happy New Year. How are you?”

“I’m - well, honestly I’ve been better, but I guess I could also be worse,” Dean says, too surprised to be anything but honest. Anna hums in understanding. “Anna, why the hell are you calling me?”

“I thought that was something friends do,” she replies.

“Are we friends? I mean, after everything, I thought that you would be, I don’t know, disgusted with me, or something. Everyone else is.”

“Oh, I am. What you did, Dean…” Anna trails off with a heavy sigh. “But I’m disgusted at what you _did_ , not at _you_. You are still a good person, even if you did make some awful mistakes. Does that make sense?”

“Not at all.” Dean sinks into Bobby’s tattered, lumpy old armchair, cradling the phone close to his ear. Anna sighs heavily again.

“Well, then, I’m sorry for that.”

There is a long, heavy silence.

“Ok, is that all, then?” Dean asks to break the tension.

“No, actually.” Anna pauses, and Dean thinks she is as uncomfortable as he is. “I wanted to offer you a job.”

Dean actually drops his phone in shock. He picks it up hurriedly, wincing at the tiny crack that’s formed on the corner of the screen before hastily dialing Anna’s number.

“Sorry,” he apologizes when Anna answers. “I think I must have misheard you and I kind of freaked out.”

“I don’t think you misheard. I did say I wanted to offer you a job. Well, not me, personally, but I know of a position that will be perfect for you.”

Dean manages to hang onto his phone this time.

“What? Why?”

“Believe it or not, I was serious about what I said before, about you being a good person despite your mistakes. You are also very good at PR, and a shitty personal life does not necessarily reflect on your ability to do your job. When the opportunity came up, I thought maybe you deserved another chance.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say. He swallows a few times.

“Anna, I -” He gives up on trying to express himself. “What kind of job?” he finally asks, weakly.

“My brother needs an image consultant.”

“Your _Novak_ brother?”

“Is it a compulsion for you to point that out every time I mention him?”

“No, maybe, I’m just surprised is all. Why does a Novak need an image consultant?”

“Have you ever seen my brother?”

Dean is just about to huff ‘of course’, since all the Novaks seem to love the spotlight cast on them by the eccentric, overarching shadow of former President Novak, but then he realizes that he can’t even recall the first name of the youngest Novak, much less what he looks or sounds like. Dean ends up just grunting. Anna chuckles.

“Exactly. Trust me, you’ll understand when you meet him.”

“But why me?”

“Castiel hasn’t worked very well with publicists Michael has hired for him hired in the past, and when I assured him that you are very competent and I think you would work well together, he was willing to give you a chance. And I do think you deserve it.”

Dean stops himself from insisting that he in no way deserves a second chance, and instead commits the name Castiel Novak to his memory. He picks at a loose thread at the bottom of his henley and stares out the window at the snow over the piled up cars in the salvage yard.

“Can I think about it and get back you you?”

“Of course. But, Dean,” Anna’s voice is low and serious, “I don’t think you’re going to get many other offers. This might be your only chance.”

Dean swallows again, and he nods, even though Anna can’t see him.

“I know.”

Anna politely wishes him goodbye and insists he call her back with a final decision before the weekend. Dean hangs up and stares down at his phone. He can’t help but be a little suspicious of serendipity.

~~

Castiel lives in Chicago. He’s a CPA, and specializes in tax preparation for the elderly. Dean finds a quote from Lucifer Novak describing him as “a walking fail”, and one from Raphael Novak explaining that he was commissioned to “support and uplift the family”, which basically boils down to Castiel being an expensive publicity stunt for a young Michael Novak.

Anna sends over a recording of a profile on Michael that aired on national news shortly after the man first announced his intention to run for president last year. It contains a brief interview with Castiel that Anna suggests he watch before meeting with his potential new boss.

Dean fast forwards over the introduction where the jowled, grey-haired reporter talked about President Novak, his wife, the commissioning of the gens.

“- died before the birth of his last child. Michael, not quite twenty years old, became the guardian of his youngest brother, Castiel,” the reporter is saying when Dean lifts his finger from the fast forward.

The scene changed from a photo of young Michael holding his infant brother to a cozy interview set. The reporter was now seated in an armchair across from a rather rumpled looking young man in a poorly fitted blue suit and a plain blue tie that was tied incorrectly. The man’s hair looked like he just stepped out of a wind tunnel, and he was staring, unblinking, at the reporter with a confused little furrow in his brow. Dean is surprised that even through the television screen he can tell the depth of the blue color of the man’s eyes.

“Michael was a very competent guardian,” Castiel told the reporter, narrowing his eyes a little, as if suspicious the reporter was trying to trick him into saying something else. The piece cuts away quickly, and cycles through longer interviews with Lucifer and Raphael about their presidential brother, and Castiel was not seen again.

Dean shuts off the recording and leans back with a stunned look. His potential employer was onscreen for less than a minute and said one sentence and still succeeded in giving off the impression of a slightly unhinged recluse. That fell in line with the photos of him with that serial-killer intense stare. Anna was not kidding when she said he needed an image consultant. Michael must be pulling his hair out trying to keep his youngest sibling public-friendly.

Dean spreads his notes out over the cracked surface of the side table too large for the corner of the room it's squeezed into, feeling a little resentful that the dingy little Chicago motel room has its own table. He feels ready for tomorrow’s interview. Prepared, even. Capable of being as inoffensive as possible while pointing out glaring character flaws. And definitely not the scandalous, sex-crazed playboy or the pathetic, lovesick victim the tabloids like to paint him as. Dean is totally trustworthy, not a risk of a career-ruining affair. Not that Castiel has to worry about the whole affair issue, with him being single, a Novak, a gen, and, well, a man. If he were a woman Dean might be in a little trouble, because President Novak definitely knew his aesthetics when designing his gens. If you can get past the creepy staring, the man is alarmingly gorgeous. Dean is nervous as hell.

They meet for lunch at small restaurant in downtown Chicago that’s surprisingly run down on the outside, surprisingly chic on the inside, and surprisingly unpretentious in all it’s true hole-in-the-wall glory. Dean feels oddly comforted by Castiel’s unique choice in meeting places. Dean hovers nervously in front of the door, fiddling with his tie - muted, forest green, Dean had thrown out the red one he wore to his father’s funeral - before heaving a deep breath and pulling open the door to meet the man who was currently his only hope in his wasteland of a career.

A friendly waitress greets him with a dazzling smile when he walks in, but Dean’s attention is already drawn to the man frowning down at a menu while seated at a table tucked into the corner near the window. Castiel looks the same as he did in the taped interview, cheap navy suit just a little too big in the shoulders, blue tie tied incorrectly, dark hair that looks like it lost a fight with a nesting bird, uncomfortably straight spine and a solemn, slightly puzzled frown on his lips. He looks up as Dean approaches. Dean’s stomach turns over when he catches sight of Castiel’s eyes and sees the otherworldly shade of blue that the cameras hinted at, but couldn’t quite capture.

If only everyone could see those eyes up close, Dean thinks wildly, people would vote for Castiel as president without him even running. Then Dean remembers that Castiel’s unnaturally bright eyes, are, in fact, unnatural and doubtless meant to achieve that very effect. Dean wonders if the other brothers bear similar features, although he can’t remember ever waxing poetical about Michael Novak’s eyes.

Castiel stands and holds out a hand to shake, fixing Dean with that unnervingly intense stare, complete with the slight narrowing of the eyes and the almost imperceptible tip of his head to the left that Dean observed in the photos and videos he watched in preparation for today’s meeting. He is the perfect height - just tall enough to be considered tall, but not tall enough to be intimidating. His handshake is the perfect balance of firm and gentle. Of course it’s perfect.

“Dean Winchester,” Castiel greets him, “I am Castiel Novak. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The cameras also failed to capture the unnaturally deep roughness of that voice.

“Likewise,” Dean manages to respond, flashing his Charming Smile. Castiel just continues to stare at him. The smile drops off of Dean’s face and he follows Castiel’s lead in taking a seat at the comfortably small square table.

“Please order whatever you like,” Castiel offers, waving a hand at the menus on the table. “I am happy to cover the bill.”

“Oh, that’s really not necessary,” Dean protests, because that’s what you do in situations like this. He isn’t expecting Castiel to reply with a calm,

“Very well, we will split the bill then.”

Dean stares at him in disbelief for a second before dropping his eyes so he doesn’t seem completely rude. He sends up a grateful prayer that the restaurant is affordably priced since he is, technically, still unemployed. Castiel has no qualms about continuing to stare.

“Anna tells me that you are seeking part time employment while studying for the law school admission test,” Castiel says.

“And she tells me that you want some help with the whole public image thing,” Dean returns, calmly. Castiel sighs.

“Yes, well, with Michael’s campaign increasing in intensity, there are more demands for me to speak on behalf of my brother, and he insists that I require assistance with that.”

“Ok, no offense or anything, ‘cause I just met you,” Dean starts, “but I watched some of your interviews, and he kind of has a point.”

Castiel glowers at him and Dean tries not to shrink under his frown. “I am what my father commissioned me to be,” Castiel sounds both peeved and resigned about that fact. “I suppose that should be our first point of discussion.”

Castiel pushes a thick manila folder across the table. Dean flips open the cover and frowns down at the lines of numbers, punctuated with small blocks of text.

“My specs,” Castiel waves at the folder. Dean jerks back, his eyes blown wide.

“Whoa.” In front of him is a complete blueprint for a human being. Any genetic engineer could pick up the little book of numbers and grow themselves a Castiel, right down to that impossibly blue eye color. He’s never seen a full set of specs before, because they are intensely private for most gens. He wonders if one of the numbers in this folder has to do with lack of self-preservation.

“It’s important that you understand what I am if you want to do this job,” Castiel explains, as if handing over his entire being to a complete stranger is no big deal.

“Right. Ok.” Dean nods.

“My father felt that Michael and Lucifer’s personalities were too strong to be sympathetic candidates, and they would not achieve the political success that my father desired,” Castiel continues. “Small children are a common tactic for garnering sympathy from the public, but my father also wanted to ensure that I would not become a competitor for Michael or Lucifer’s political positions.”

“So he gave you crap people skills,” Dean infers. Castiel confirms with a nod. “That’s shitty.”

“Gens are commissioned to fulfill a purpose. This is mine,” Castiel shrugs, his face expressionless. Dean feels a tug of sympathy in his gut. He’s never thought before about how shit it is that people make entire human beings to be props for other human beings, but it is. Complete bullshit. Castiel deserves better.

“So it would be my job to try and make you look good, so Michael looks good,” Dean tries to stay on track. Castiel nods again. “Ok. Why me?”

“Anna recommended you.” Castiel looks surprised that Dean would even ask.

“You, um,” Dean hates to bring it up, but he needs to acknowledge the elephant in the room, “you know I’m a bust, right?”

Castiel’s head tilts and his eyebrows furrow together.

“You sent over your stats with your resume. All your skills appear to be completely in line with your numbers.”

“I have career mods to be a lawyer,” Dean explains, “and obviously, I’m not. That’s why I’m doing the whole law school thing, now.”

“Ah,” Castiel’s expression clears. “I understand. It is admirable to follow your true calling.”

“Well, it’s what my dad wanted,” Dean shrugs, uncomfortable with calling law his ‘true calling’.

“I anticipate your studies will not interfere with your work?”

“No way.” Dean huffs a laugh. “Lisa used to say hell would freeze over before I slacked off on work.”

“Lisa?”

“Lisa Braeden? My, um,” Dean stumbles at Castiel’s completely clueless expression. He didn’t anticipate having to explain this. “Do you even own a TV?”

“Yes.” There’s that head tilt again. “I rarely indulge in watching it, though. I prefer to get the news from print media, and my knowledge of popular culture is too lacking to enjoy entertainment programs.”

“That’s - wow, dude. I didn’t know they still printed actual newspapers,” Dean marvels. Castiel frowns at him.

“A print newspaper is a timeless symbol of intellect,” he sniffs. “But, you were saying about Lisa?”

“Yeah. Lisa Braeden is - was - the politician I used to work for. We - um - there was this scandal,” Dean hedges. Castiel’s eyes light up in recognition.

“Oh, yes, Anna did mention something. You engaged in an extramarital affair with your employer?”

Dean can’t help but laugh at Castiel’s earnest bluntness.

“Well, yeah. No beating around the bush with you, huh?”

Castiel’s face actually flushes. “I apologize. I don’t mean to be rude. My people skills -”

“Rusty. I get it. No worries, dude, that’s why you have me.” Dean freezes. “If you hire me, that is.”

“I think that would be amenable,” Castiel says, his voice and eyes warm, although his expression remains mostly featureless. Dean grins.

“Yeah. Yes, I’m amenable.”

The rest of lunch passes with safe, neutral conversation about the news and weather. Castiel orders steak, medium-rare, with mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables on the side. Dean settles on a club sandwich, one of the cheaper items on the menu.

Dean finds that Castiel is well spoken, well-informed, confident, quick-thinking and a pro at dodging difficult questions. All his traits seem to add up to a perfectly designed politician, yet somehow still manages to be strangely obtuse and awkward and Dean can’t quite wrap his head around it. And he really wants to fix that tie.

They shake hands before parting their separate ways, agreeing to meet at Castiel’s office on Monday. Dean grips the steering wheel of the Impala just a little too hard as he drives back to the motel, just to remind himself that the past few hours weren’t a dream. He has a job again, a plan, a future. Castiel gave him the opportunity for a second chance he was sure he would never get.

~~

Castiel is bland on paper. Dean vaguely recognizes the man the specs describe, exactly 181.32 cm tall, exactly 76.74 kg, dark brown hair, exceptionally blue eyes. He reads about the intelligence, the talent with numbers, the awkward social skills and inherent compassion.

It is not Castiel.

Dean can’t explain it, and it frustrates him. He gives up on the specs about halfway through, tossing the folder onto the table in his motel room, watching the papers scatter untidily across the stained wood surface. He drums his fingers on the edge of the table, glancing at the clock to see that it is far too late for him to still be awake, but Dean doesn’t feel the urge to sleep.

He flips on the TV, fiddling with the finicky remote, trying to get the channel to change. He eventually lands on the late night sketch comedy show, which is currently spearheading politicians. Including one particular congressional candidate caught in an affair with her employee. Dean grimaces, a familiar wave of nausea rolling over him, and he hurriedly switches the TV off.

At first, he thinks the knock at the door is for the next room over, but when the knocking turns into insistent pounding, Dean pulls the door open with a frown.

The man standing in the doorway is several inches taller and a bit broader than him, although much less so than Dean remembers. The strange gauntness is apparent even through layers of jackets, and plaid, and t-shirts. His hair sweeps almost to his shoulders, pulling away from his high forehead and curling lightly around his chin. His hazel eyes are slightly hooded and a sloppy grin is plastered over his face. Sam.

Dean is so shocked to see his brother standing in the doorway of a cheap motel in a dirty Chicago suburb, he almost misses the woman under Sam’s arm, practically holding the man up. She looks tiny next to Sam’s massive form, the top of her head barely clearing his shoulder, but there is a subtle menace hidden in her dark eyes.

“Dean!” Sam’s voice is a little too loud. He sways in towards Dean, and the woman places a hand over his chest to steady him. Dean opens his mouth to reply, but only manages to swallow dryly a few times.

“Sam,” he finally croaks, unable to tear his eyes away from the man in front of him, fearful he might be a mirage. He looks older, his eyes slightly sunken and his teeth strangely yellow.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam says again, a little quieter. The grin on his face falls a little.

“Sam, I’ve been trying to call you,” Dean says helplessly. Sam waves a hand dismissively.

“Like, a million times. I know. Ruby told me.”

“Did you even listen to any of the messages?” Dean asks, although he already knows the answer just by looking at Sam. He didn’t listen to a single voicemail. He doesn’t know about Dad.

“Why? I’m here, I can talk to you in person!” Sam says, as if that is the most logical response in the world, regardless of the months between the voicemails and the visit. “This is Ruby.”

The woman lifts a hand and gives Dean a sarcastic little wave.

“Hi.”

Dean frowns at her.

“Hi.” He turns back to Sam. “How the hell did you find me here?”

“Dean, you’re _famous_ ,” Sam says instead of an answer. “Your dick was on the news. I told Ruby, I told her, my brother’s dick is famous.”

“He didn’t say that,” Ruby clarifies dryly. Sam laughs.

“Ok, fine. I didn’t say that. But it’s totally true.”

Dean stares at the couple. He doesn’t even bother trying to process the emotions whirling through him, pushing them down and bottling them up as too confusing to consider handling. He latches onto one thought.

“Sam, are you _high_?”

Sam glares at him.

“No.”

Ruby scoffs. Sam glares at her.

“Maybe.”

“Jesus, Sam,get in here. Lie down until you sober up, or whatever.”

Dean moves to tug his giant of a brother away from the tiny woman supporting him, but Sam batts him away.

“I don’t need you to take care of me, Dean, I’m fine. I told you this was a bad idea,” Sam directs the last sentence towards Ruby, who shrugs.

“It wasn’t my idea. I’m just being supportive, remember?” Ruby points out. She looks up and fixes Dean with a smug sneer. “He’s really fucking stubborn.”

“I know.” Dean frowns at Ruby, trying to figure her out, then focuses back on Sam. “We need to talk.”

“We are talking.”

“Not when you’re like this!”

“I didn’t come here for you to judge me.”

The sneer on Sam’s face, so similar to Ruby’s, strikes Dean through the heart. Four years, and Dean is looking at Sam like he is a tall glass of water after a trek through a desert, and Sam is looking at Dean like he is an insect to be scraped off the bottom of a shoe. Worthless, a disappointment.

“Why did you come here, then,” Dean snarls, allowing his anger to cover his hurt. “And how the hell did you find me?”

“Ruby’s great at finding people,” Sam drawls. Ruby smirks and Dean decides he’d rather not know _why_ Ruby has that particular skill. “I thought maybe you could help us out.”

“Help you out?” Dean chokes.

“Yeah. See, Ruby’s going to nursing school, and we were just about finished making the payments on her tuition, when her sister got into this accident and broke her leg. So we’ve been trying to help with the hospital bills and shit, since her sister can’t even work, but Ruby’s in school all the time and -”

“You’re here to ask me for _money_ ,” Dean interrupts, incredulous.

“Not very much,” Sam offers with another sloppy grin. Dean shakes his head.

“Sam - I -” Dean stammers, at a loss for how to respond to his baby brother trying to scam money out of him.

“It’s for a good cause,” Sam insists, looking a little desperate now. Ruby rolls her eyes.

“C’mon, Sam, he’s obviously too full of himself to help out his only brother,” she says, her words directed at Sam, but her sneer directed at Dean. “Let’s go.”

“Sammy, no, I want to help you, but you need _help_ help, not money,” Dean scrambles for words to keep his brother from being pulled away again.

“You’d think with all the money he made living it up with all those high and mighty politicians and _gens_ he’d be able to spare a little for us everyday hard-working folks,” Ruby continues acidly.

“Do you even see where I’m living right now? I’m _unemployed_ ,” Dean spits back, gesturing at the run-down qualities of the motel room. Sam shakes his head.

“I thought you were better than that,” he says sadly, meeting Dean’s green eyes with his hazel. “I thought you were better than Dad.”

Dean’s throat makes a strange, strangled choking noise, but Sam is already letting himself be pulled away by a surprisingly strong Ruby.

“You’re really listening to _her_ instead of your own brother?” Dean calls after them once he finds his voice again, but Sam and Ruby are already gone.

Dean slams the door behind him. He punches the solid wood of the table until his knuckles are raw and the neighbors start pounding on the wall and shouting for him to shut the hell up. He tugs on his coat and heads for the bar across the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say hi on [Tumblr](http://jailikechai.tumblr.com)


	5. Off Balance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean tries to figure things out with both his surprising new boss, and his unstable younger brother.
> 
> Meg is probably my favorite character in this whole fic, I love her.
> 
> Warning for bitch!Ruby, implied drug use, and Winchester Family Drama. 
> 
> On the plus side, Dean has a thing for fixing Cas' tie. There's also Cas standing in the snow carrying a houseplant.

The woman sitting at the reception desk of Castiel’s office has a row of lipstick tubes arranged in front of her. She lifts up her compact mirror to eye level as she carefully traces the contours of her lips with the first gaudily bright red.

Dean rubs circles into his temple, trying to ease the hangover-inspired ache behind his eye sockets, only made worse by having to deal with bright colors and unprofessional colleagues this early in the morning. He coughs politely to get the woman’s attention.

“Hey,” the woman says, her eyes still focused on her reflection, tipping her head from side to side and flicking her dark curls out of the way as she judges the color. She sets the mirror down on the desk and reaches for a tissue, carefully blotting off the lipstick before finally looking up at Dean. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Dean,” Dean says, eyeing the woman distastefully. “I’m here to meet with Castiel.”

“I bet you are,” she smirks. She turns her attention back to her lipsticks, twisting up the next tube to study the slightly different shade of lurid red. “Clarence, you’ve got a _gentleman caller_!” she shouts. She grins at Dean with freshly red-painted lips. Dean knows that the fifth glass of scotch last night was a mistake. So was the fourth. And probably also the third. It’s going to be a long morning.

Castiel’s tousled, frowning head pokes out of a door slightly down the hallway.

“Meg? Where’s Cheryl?”

Meg shrugs, wiping off her current shade of lipstick and choosing her next.

“Sick, she called in earlier.” She jerks her head towards Dean. “Your boyfriend’s here.”

“I’d appreciate it if you could use the intercom and not just shout. And I am certain I told you about the new consultant.”

“Mm-hmm. Consultant.” Meg winks at Dean, who suppresses a shudder. Castiel heaves a long suffering sigh and fixes Meg with the disappointed yet indulgent look of a frustrated parent with a rebellious child. Meg returns the look with a surprisingly warm, impish smile.

“I’ll be with you in a minute, Dean. Meg, you can join Dean in the conference room,” Castiel says politely, then disappears back behind his door.

“You don’t want me to cover the front?” Meg shouts at the closed door.

“No!” Castiel’s emphatic, muffled reply comes a little too quickly.

Meg chuckles darkly and covers her lips with a deep shade of blood-red before standing to lead Dean down the hallway to a small, windowless conference room. She plops down into one of the swiveling chairs, then abruptly swings herself around to face Dean, her arms crossed over her chest. Dean hesitantly takes a seat across from her, eyeing her warily.

“So,” Meg says conversationally, “what are your intentions towards my boss?”

“Excuse me?” Dean lifts an eyebrow.

“You heard me, handsome.”

“I’m pretty sure he hired me to help with his public appearances during Michael’s campaign.”

“And that’s it?”

“Yes?”

Meg narrows her eyes at him.

“I’ve got my eye on you, pretty boy.”

Dean stares at her in undisguised disbelief as she glares back, one corner of her mouth pulling back in an unreadable smirk. He almost sighs with relief when the door swings open to admit Castiel.

“Apologies. It’s been rather a - hectic - morning,” Castiel apologizes as he hurries into the room. “Hello, Dean.”

His tie is entirely backwards today and it’s making Dean’s skin crawl a little. Castiel settles himself gracefully in a chair, folds his hands neatly in his lap and regards the other two people in the room with his calm, intense gaze. The man is a walking contradiction.

“Dean, I’d like to introduce you to Meg Masters. She is, unofficially, my partner in the firm and she assists me with the tax preparation. I wish Cheryl was here, so you could meet her as well. Cheryl is my administrative assistant, and unofficially the office manager,” Castiel summarizes.

“You’re all very unofficial, then,” Dean jokes.

“Yes, well,” Castiel shrugs and sends a fond look towards Meg. “We’re a bit of an odd bunch, I suppose. There is a reason that Michael insists that I have some kind of handler.”

Dean smiles. “Guess I fit right in then.”

“Yeah, don’t be so eager to fit your anything in anywhere,” Meg grumbles.

“Meg,” Castiel warns.

“Angel here may not watch the news, but I know where your dick has been,” Meg tells Dean with a bright, wicked grin.

“If you’re not prepared to be civil, perhaps you should leave,” Castiel snaps at Meg. Meg pops up out of her chair promptly.

“Thanks, bye,” she tosses over her shoulder, accompanied by another lewd wink at Dean, as she saunters through the door.

“Don’t answer the phones!” Castiel calls after her. When the door clicks shut behind the retreating woman, Castiel closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath.

“Um,” Dean says tentatively. Castiel’s blue eyes are on him in an instant.

“My apologies, Dean,” he says sincerely. “Meg can be a little… overprotective… at times.”

“I think she might have a crush on you,” Dean muses, rubbing a hand over the places in his forehead where his hangover is currently pounding in nails, collecting himself after the whirlwind of Meg’s presence. Castiel says nothing, but Dean thinks he can see a hint of a smile playing around the corners of his eyes.

“Meg was previously my brother’s assistant. She and I have been working together for a long time,” Castiel explains. Dean’s eyebrows almost touch his hairline.

“Which brother?” Dean questions, unable to imagine Michael Novak’s assistant being quite so - unique.

“Lucifer.” The Hollywood talent agent brother.

“Ah,” Dean says again, earning a sharp glance from Castiel.

“Meg is my partner, and my friend, and her help has been indispensable.”

Dean gets the message.

“So, it’s just been you and Meg running this whole shebang?”

“We’ve had others,” Castiel deflects, his eyes searching the grains of wood in the tabletop and avoiding Dean’s.

“I’ve got a feeling this fits in with the whole overprotective thing,” Dean hazards a guess.

“There have been other accountants who were not amenable to working with Meg,” Castiel tells him, “and other consultants that Michael has hired to try and make me presentable. However, Michael and I do not quite see eye-to-eye, and his hires have never stayed more than a week. The last one called me impossible to work with and resigned after sixteen hours.”

“What the hell? Dude, you’re not that bad.”

Castiel sighs and drops his head with a little shake.

“Dean, you barely know me, and you’ve already observed that my ‘people skills’ are ‘rusty’.”

Castiel uses air quotes and sounds a little bitter. He’s open and genuine and Dean can’t help but smile softly.

“Yeah, well, I barely know you and I can already tell you’re pretty fucking awesome,” Dean declares boldly. “At the very least, Meg’s gotta see something in you, right?”

Castiel’s expression softens as he regards Dean, his eyes betraying his amazement as a smile ghosts across his lips. Dean forgets about the dull pain in his skull and the acid churning in his stomach as the blue eyes sweep over him. If Dean can just get people to see this Castiel rather than the made-to-order automaton gen, they will be golden.

They turn to conversing about Castiel’s role in Michael’s campaign. Michael likes him to stay out of the limelight as much as possible, but he does get a steady stream of requests for interviews and statements that Dean is now expected to handle. For all Castiel’s insistence that he is not commissioned for politics, he knows an awful lot about the topic. He is an unending well of information on economics and taxes, and most of his strong opinions are at odds with Michael’s.

Dean watches Castiel closely as the talk. The specs mentioned stubborn, but they had nothing to say about the little twitch in Castiel’s left eye when he refuses to back down on a point. They outlined determination, but not the way Castiel squares his shoulders and lifts his chin when he talks about his opinions. There was nothing in the specs about the man’s soft brown hair being left uncombed to the point of disaster, or his easy eloquence quickly turning into convoluted discourse filled with obscure vocabulary. Dean doesn’t know what to make of it.

“I don’t get you,” he finally blurts out as Castiel drones on passionately about budgets and tax reform. Castiel’s mouth snaps shut and he frowns at Dean.

“What?”

“Sorry, I just-” Dean scrambles and latches onto the first thing he sees. “You have four older brothers and you don’t know how to tie a tie?”

Castiel looks down to where Dean is gesturing at his chest. He lifts the end of his backwards tie, his expression a sudden blank. Dean wants to smack himself.

“Being raised by four teenaged boys left much wanting. Now I just find the ties rather frustrating and a bit frivolous,” Castiel says blandly. “Michael insists they are a professional necessity.”

“Here, let me.” Dean is on his feet and reaching out before he fully registers what his body is doing. He loosens the knot of Castiel’s blue silk tie, re-loops it, and pulls it tight again, sliding the now tidy knot towards the base of his throat, not quite all the way, adjusts the folds, and smooths the length down his chest.

“There.” Dean admires his work. He lifts his head, his proud little smile faltering when he looks into wide blue eyes that are only a few inches away and realizes he is way too far into his new boss’s personal space, basically manhandling him, on his first day of work. He steps back quickly.

Castiel looks down at himself, his head tilting just a little to the left, the way it does. He runs his fingers over the smooth, symmetrical knot wonderingly.

“Thank you.” Castiel looks back up at Dean and he smiles.

A small smile, but a real one, softening the corners of his mouth and crinkling the lines around his eyes. Dean feel a goofy grin surging in his gut, but he pushes it down in favor of a polite smile and nod.

“You’re welcome.”

When Dean returns to his motel room at the end of the day, he stares at the specs scattered across the table, still unsure of what to think of them. His hangover is gone but he feels more unbalanced than ever.

~~

The bartender recognizes Dean from the previous night’s drowning of sorrows that followed the visit from Sam. She eyes him warily when he strides in and swings himself onto a stool at the bar.

“You ok, dude?” she asks as she pours him his two fingers of scotch. Her eyes are blue, but not as blue as Castiel’s. Dean finds it a little disconcerting.

“Yeah,” he grunts, knocking back half of his glass in a swallow.

“Family trouble again?”

Dean must have been moaning about Sam during his drunken stupor last night.

“Nah, just work.”

“Rough day at the office, huh?” She leans her elbows on the bar and hunches towards him with an understanding nod.

“No, actually, it went really well,” Dean replies. The bartender blinks at him.

“Celebration, then?”

Dean gulps down the rest of his drink and signals her to pour another. She shakes her head.

“Or not.”

Dean sips at his second glass more sedately, allowing the slowly spreading warmth of the alcohol to move through him. He’s lost in his thoughts and almost doesn’t notice when a body slips onto the stool to his right.

“Dean Winchester,” a sultry voice intones, and Dean looks over at the woman sitting next to him.

“Ruby, right?” he recognizes Sam’s girlfriend. “Where’s Sam?”

“Sam’s safe,” she assures him with a flippant wave of her hand that’s anything but reassuring. “I take care of him.”

“You take care of him?” Dean growls. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means it’s none of your business,” she replies, waving down the bartender to order a beer and some fries. “I give him what he needs. Unlike you. He used to talk about you a lot, you know.”

“He - what?”

“Sam. He used to go on and on about his big brother and how great you were. Guess he stopped when he realized you were never going to look for him.”

“What the fuck? I never fucking _stopped_ looking for him! I was out of my mind for years trying to find him! Do you have any idea how many times I tried to call in the last month alone?” Dean’s blood starts to boil as Ruby eyes him over her fries.

She shrugs. “It wasn’t that hard for _me_ to find _you_. You should be grateful that he never listened to all those pathetic voicemails, because who the hell would want to find you after hearing that crap.”

“What do you want, Ruby,” Dean snarls. She chomps down on a fry and sips her beer as she regards him contemplatively.

“I think we can get along, me and you,” she offers. “We’re both reasonable people with needs.”

“I thought Sam takes care of your _needs_.”

“Exactly. Sam’s a peach, he really is. I don’t know what I’d do without him. But he’s running out of steam. I thought maybe a good old-fashioned family visit would do him good.”

“He’s running out of money, you mean. Figured I’d be an easy target.”

“Oh, come on, Dean-o. Do I look that stupid to you?”

“Want me to answer that honestly?”

Ruby rolls her eyes and leans an elbow on the bar. “Ok, cut the crap. You’ve got a good thing going for you here, but you’re walking kind of a fine line. To you, your brother’s dead weight, a liability. To me, he’s valuable. So pat him on the back, maybe slip him some cash to take care of himself, and we’ll be out of your hair.”

Dean gapes at her. “You think my brother is dead weight?”

“Not to me,” she corrects.

“What happens when he _is_?” Dean sneers. Ruby shrugs a shoulder, uncaring.

“Not my problem.”

“You know what, fuck you,” Dean spits out, tossing a few bills on the bar and collecting himself to storm out.

“You’re turning down a good offer,” Ruby warns. “Wouldn’t want something terrible to happen to your precious Sammy, or your comfy new job.”

“You stay the hell away from Sam,” Dean threatens. Ruby smirks at him.

“If that’s really what you want.” She bites down on a fry, talking as she chews. “Good luck telling him to stay away from me, though.”

Dean is shaking with anger and fear as he walks out of the bar.

He doesn’t hear from Sam or Ruby for several days. He tries going to the police, who laugh at him when he explains that his brother has a creepy girlfriend. And Ruby was right about one thing; Sam is a liability and he doesn’t want Castiel to find out about his deadbeat brother. What if Castiel fires him? Dean can’t afford to lose this job.

The week at work with Castiel goes smoothly, albeit punctuated by scathing commentary from Meg. Dean chats with Ellen over the phone and assures her that things are going well, studiously avoiding mentioning Sam and rubbing his head in anticipation of the smack that omission will earn him when Ellen inevitably finds out.

Dean signs the lease for his new apartment on Thursday, grateful for the generous salary Castiel offered him.

“My father’s money should be put to good use,” Castiel explained. “My brothers interpret that to mean investing in business, or government, or themselves, I prefer to invest in the common working man.”

“You’re awesome, Cas,” Dean replied, shaking his head, and patting Castiel’s shoulder as Castiel gaped at him in wide-eyed surprise at the gesture of affection.

Things _are_ going well, and Dean hums to himself while zipping up his last suitcase to move from the motel room to the Impala before bidding the motel goodbye for good.

“Still listening to Metallica, huh?”

Dean jerks upright to see Sam framed by the propped-open door, watching him with tired, dark-circled eyes.

“Sam.”

Dean shoves a few more emotions into his ‘ _not dealing with this_ ’ bottle and crosses his arms as he stares down his brother. Sam hangs his head and takes a step forward.

“I’m sorry about the other night,” Sam says quietly.

“Yeah, well…” Dean shrugs. “Ruby finally let you off the leash, then?”

“She thought I should talk to you.” Sam shifts his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I - uh - I listened to a few of your messages.”

Dean turns his attention back to his suitcase, taking more time than necessary to make sure it is sealed tightly. Sam’s presence looms in the background, and he coughs.

“So… Dad…”

Dean turns, suitcase in hand, avoiding Sam’s eyes.

“Yeah.”

Dean pushes past Sam, but Sam grabs the handle of the suitcase and tugs it out of Dean’s hands.

“Here, let me get that.”

Dean yanks the handle back.

“I got it.”

“Dean…” Sam pleads.

Dean kicks the stopper from under the door and lets it swing shut behind him, the click of the automatic lock immensely satisfying. Dean storms down the hallway, Sam trailing pathetically behind.

“Please, Dean. I haven’t talked to you in four years, man.”

Dean whirls on him, stepping into his personal space, glaring up at his much larger younger brother.

“Yeah, and where the hell were you man? Getting high with your scary as fuck girlfriend while I handled Dad’s drunk ass? While I planned Dad’s _funeral_?”

Sam flinches as if Dean had slapped him on the face. Dean’s anger withers at the pathetic expression. Curse the childhood he spent doting on and raising his younger brother. He blinks slowly and steps back, thrusting the suitcase into Sam’s hands.

“Here. Make yourself useful for once, gigantor.”

The Impala is illegally parked at the curb in front of the motel.

“Car looks good,” Sam comments as he swings the suitcase into the trunk where it joins the rest of Dean’s meager worldly possessions.

“‘Course she does. I’m not a heathen,” Dean huffs. A hint of a smile ghosts across Sam’s lips. Dean waves for him to get in the car.

“What?” Sam blinks over the shiny black expanse of the car to where his brother is swinging himself into the driver’s seat.

“Thought you were making yourself useful,” Dean jeers. “You’re helping me move.” Sam blinks at him.

“I’m helping you move?”

“Sure are.” Dean offers a cheeky grin. Sam shakes his head, but climbs in the car. He runs his hands reverently over the leather of the seats. Dean watches out of the corner of his eye as he pulls the car into gear.

“I didn’t think I’d ever sit in this car again. Dad wasn’t driving her when…” Sam trails off, not sure how to refer to the accident that took their father’s life. Dean takes pity on him.

“Nah, he got the truck a few years back. Still threatened to skin me alive if he ever saw a scratch on the Impala, though.”

“Sounds like Dad.” Sam watches the Chicago streets fly past the window and Dean watches Sam more than the road. “Guess I missed a lot, huh.”

Dean grunts in response. Sam’s knee begins to jiggle in nervous rhythm, his long fingers tapping briskly against the car door. Dean’s eyes flick to the movement every few moments.

They arrive at the neat, brick front apartment building in uncomfortable silence. It’s on a quiet side street, made narrow by the cars parked along the curbs, a little run down, but not a slum by any means. Dean is quite happy that he found the place.

Sam almost drops the box he attempts to carry up to the front door.

“Jesus!” Dean curses as he attempts to steady Sam’s oversized limbs and catch Sam’s box while still holding onto his own.

“Shit,” Sam grimaces. “Sorry.”

“You’re taking clumsy to a whole new level,” Dean says as he appraises Sam’s still shaking hands.

“Sorry. Ruby said this would happen. I’m fucking this up. I should go.”

Sam sets the box down by the door and pulls his phone out of his pocket. Dean hurriedly places his box on top of Sam’s and covers Sam’s hands with his own.

“Stop, Sammy. What’re you doing?”

“I’m telling Ruby to come pick me up.”

“Ruby? What the hell do you see in that bitch?”

“What the fuck, Dean, you don’t even know her. Ruby is - she gets me. She’s been there for me the whole time.” Sam tears his hands away, quickly tapping at his phone. Dean watches his trembling fingers sharply.

“ _I’m_ here for you, Sammy. You need help.”

“I don’t need your help, Dean. I’ve lived without you for four years. With Ruby. I can count on her.”

“Count on her for _what_?” Dean snarls. “Can’t you see she’s just using you?”

“You think just because she’s norm she’s using me? That I should be like you and marry some perfect mod because Dad told me to?” Sam snaps back.

“You’re still stuck on the whole mod thing? Grow up, already, Sam! You can’t undo the mods just because you think you know better than Dad!” Dean points an angry, accusing finger at Sam’s sallow face. “And don’t you _dare_ talk about Cassie, you never even met her. My _brother_ , never met the woman I _married_.”

“Grow up? Says the man who still obeys Dad’s every whim? Even though Dad is _dead_?” Sam growls.

“God, you haven’t changed at all, have you!” Dean throws his hands up.

“I was an idiot to think that you would understand,” Sam says. A tiny, sleek, European car pulls up to the front of the apartment. Ruby smirks at Dean as Sam folds up his limbs to fit into the passenger’s seat.

“Fine!” Dean shouts at the car as it screeches away. “Just… fine…”

Dean kicks the low concrete step in front of his new apartment building. “Fuck!” he shouts at the pain in his toe. The Impala’s trunk is still open, the rest of his boxes and suitcases packed inside, the two boxes near the door balancing haphazardly on the step next to him. He sinks down to sit on the icy cold, hard concrete. He drops his head into his hands and just sits.

“Oh.”

The deep voice jolts Dean out of his dazed staring towards the road. Castiel is standing  on the sidewalk a few yards down, watching Dean with a somewhat conflicted expression.

“Cas?”

“This appears to be a bad time,” Castiel says, his eyes shifting uncomfortably, but otherwise unmoving. He’s wearing the same suit and tie combination Dean is accustomed to seeing him in at the office, covered, to Dean’s amusement, by a tan trenchcoat that fits about as well as his suit jackets. Dean wonders if the man even owns any casual clothing.

“It’s -” Dean contemplates a polite way to tell his boss that, yeah, in fact, it is a really bad time, and unable to come up with something, he sighs. “You know what, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it, Cas.”

“Dean, it’s snowing,” Castiel points out, casting a glance up at the grey sky. “You shouldn’t be sitting outside in this weather.”

“Says the man wearing a trenchcoat in January,” Dean scoffs, just now noticing the fat flakes of snow collecting in his hair. He leaps up, barely catching himself from slipping in the light dusting of slick on the sidewalk, dashing for the still-open trunk of his beloved car. “Aw, baby,” Dean whines, patting the car’s slick surface, and examining how damp everything in the trunk has gotten from the few minutes of snow. Thankfully, it’s not too bad.

“You mentioned you were moving today, and your new address was on the tax forms you filled out. I thought I might stop by and see if you needed help,” Castiel pipes up from behind him. He holds out his hands, and Dean sees that he is carrying what appears to be a tiny green cactus in a cheap, painted, terracotta pot. “I understand that it is appropriate to bring a gift on such occasions.”

Dean can’t help it. He laughs. Castiel tips his head to the side and frowns at him.

“Was I… incorrect?” Castiel questions tentatively, worry bleeding into his adorably puzzled expression.

“No, no. I was just surprised is all. Would you mind giving me a hand with these boxes?” Dean nods at the two boxes threatening to tip off the step, and collecting another from the trunk.

“Of course.”

Castiel places the cactus on top of his box and follows Dean up the steps to his new second floor apartment. The apartment came partially furnished - including a satisfyingly large, solid dining table that takes up most of the corner of the living room the leasing office glowingly referred to as ‘the breakfast nook’. Dean isn’t crazy about the fact that there’s still no full kitchen, but the bathroom door doesn’t stick and the bedroom has a large window facing the street.

It takes three more trips to and from the car to transfer all of Dean’s belongings into the apartment. The two men travel up and down the steps with arms full of boxes, bags, and suitcases in companionable silence. Their fingers are frozen and their noses red from the cold outside, the snow coming down thicker with every passing minute.

Dean sets the last box down on the kitchen counter and begins to rummage through it immediately. He lets out a pleased grunt when he retrieves the items he is looking for - a brand new bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses. He shows the bottle to Castiel.

“Can I offer you a drink?”

Castiel stares him down, intense as always.

“Would that be appropriate?”

Dean shrugs, setting the glasses down on his new table and twisting open the top of the bottle of cheap whiskey.

“You just helped me haul all of my stuff up a flight of stairs in the snow, the least I can do is offer you a drink.” Dean pours a measure of whiskey into a glass and pushes it across the table towards Castiel. Castiel regarded the amber liquid solemnly for a moment. To Dean’s delight he lifts the glass and drains it.

“Thank you,” he says roughly, licking the vestiges of alcohol off his lips.

Dean lifts the bottle and raises and eyebrow. Castiel holds out his glass.

Castiel drinks twice as much as Dean and feels half the effects. He sits on the hard wooden dining chair with his ramrod straight spine, looking down into his ninth or tenth generous glass of whiskey. He is still wearing his trenchcoat.

Dean, on the other hand, is sprawled over the other chair, leaning his head onto his arms where they are folded across the table, spewing some kind nonsense about his car. He watches, fascinated, as Castiel drains another measure of Jack.

“How are you not drunk,” Dean marvels, watching the other man inspect the last few dredges of alcohol that remain in the bottom of the bottle.

“I believe I’m starting to feel something,” Castiel counters, voice bland. Dean shakes his head. Castiel glares down into a freshly poured glass of bitter alcohol. “My - President Novak - felt that a man should be able to drink with his colleagues, but that he should never lose his head to the drink. It was very important to him to be in control at every moment. Accordingly, he commissioned all of my brothers and I with rather unreasonably high tolerances to the effects of alcohol. Even a drink to ease the end of a trying day is denied to us.”

Dean props his chin on his hands to stare at Castiel. He must have been telling the truth about starting to feel the effects of the copious amounts he had consumed; Dean suspects he would never make those comments otherwise.

“That sucks, dude,” Dean commiserates.

“Indeed.”

They sit in companionable silence for a short time, sipping their respective drinks.

"My dad was an alcoholic," Dean admits, surprised at the words tumbling out. He blames the alcohol and those wide blue eyes across from him. "It's why I don't normally drink much. He died driving drunk. But today - my brother just showed up out of the blue with this scary-ass girlfriend after I haven't seen him for years, and with the new job, and everything, it's all just been a little too much."

Castiel nods. "Lucifer would say it's not surprising that I've driven someone to drink."

Dean sits up straight and frowns at him.

"No! It's not you, Cas, not even close," Dean assures. "It's just... life. You - you're - this is nice, actually."

Castiel smiles shyly. He lifts his glass and Dean taps it with his own.

"Here's to life," Castiel toasts. They both drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note, Michael, Lucifer, and Raphael's professions are inspired by the Emanuel family (Rahm, Ari, and Ezekiel), who are a politician, talent agent, and doctor, respectively. Gabriel has run away and is hiding out in Europe.


	6. Rock Bottom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As implied by the title, this chapter is rather heavy. Warning for drug overdose and its consequences.
> 
> I have no experience with drugs, addiction, or recovery, and I tried to be as respectful as possible, but I'm sure I inevitably got some things wrong. 
> 
> On the brighter side, we get some overprotective Cas, and a certain tall, blonde, and beautiful health care professional makes a return appearance!

Dean’s hangover is surprisingly mild, a fact for which Dean is eternally grateful as he showers and shaves in preparation for work. He unwisely promised Castiel he would be at the office by 8 when he tipped his slightly inebriated boss into a cab around 2 a.m. after a run to the liquor store and a second bottle of whiskey.

The sun is obnoxiously bright after last night’s storm and the inch of freshly fallen snow glitters in the light, at odds with Dean’s dark and stormy mood, still reeling from the fight with Sam and the drunken confessions with Cas. The fact that he is running late and can’t find a matching pair of socks also doesn’t help. 

Dean thunders down the stairs at 8:02 in his suit and tie, clutching his folio with notes for today’s meeting with the producer from the Channel 3 news, trying not to spill coffee on himself. 

The coffee spills on the notes when Dean bursts through the front door of the building and trips over a body sprawled on the step.

Dean doesn’t even have time to curse before both coffee cup and folio drop from his hands and he is kneeling beside the prone figure, cradling Sam’s familiar head in his lap. The overhang of the building kept Sam’s body free from the snow and damp, but he shakes and shivers from cold.

“Sam! Sammy!” Dean lightly taps at Sam’s clammy cheek, but gets no response. Dean fumbles to find a pulse in his neck, his eyes stinging with tears. Dean presses his fingers against the artery, feeling nothing for a too long moment, until, too light, too slow, he can feel the rush of blood beneath his fingertips. 

“Fuck, Sammy, stay with me, man,” Dean commands roughly as he wrangles his phone out of his pocket while trying not to jostle Sam. 

“9-1-1 emergency services, what is your emergency?” the voice at the end of the line answers promptly.

“My brother, he’s sick, he’s unconscious,” Dean chokes, “fuck, I don’t know. I found him, he won’t wake up, his heart beat’s real slow -”

“Ok, where are you located?” the 911 operator interrupts calmly. Dean gives him the address, trying to swipe the moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes with his shoulders, unwilling to lift a hand from Sam’s head.

Dean woodenly answers the operator’s questions as he watches Sam’s chest barely rise and fall with each slow, shallow breath. He had vomited on himself at some point and a crusty brown-orange stain spread over his shirt. 

“Dammit, Sam, if you die on me I am going to kick your ass so hard,” Dean promises, voice cracking.

The few minutes until the ambulance to arrive take an eternity. 

“What the fuck took you so long,” Dean shouts at the EMTs as they rush over to him. One kneels down to take Sam’s pulse. The other questions Dean.

“Can you tell us what happened, sir?”

“I don’t know! I found him like this. What are you doing?” Dean snaps at the EMT who has switched from checking Sam’s pulse to rolling up his sleeves.

“Sir, what is your relationship to the patient?”

“He’s my brother.”

“Does your brother take drugs?” asks the EMT inspecting the -  _ fuck _ \- track marks that litter Sam’s forearms. Dean swallows.

“I’ve never seen him. We just reconnected a few days ago, but , uh -” Dean hangs his head, watching Sam’s unresponsive face, as still and empty as the dead, “he was high then.”

The kneeling EMT prepares an injection while the second retrieves a gurney from the back of the ambulance. 

Dean watches helplessly as the EMTs tell him to stand back while they administer the injection and struggle to lift Sam onto the gurney. One climbs into the driver’s seat and the other motions for Dean to join her in the ambulance.

Dean clutches Sam’s hand as the ambulance shakes and bounces down the Chicago streets. The EMT asks questions about Sam’s age, health, marital status, insurance information, and Dean tries to respond, despite not knowing any of the answers. 

At one particularly rough bump in the road, Sam’s eyelids flutter and he groans.

“Sammy!”

“Dean?” 

Dean’s tears threaten to spill over when he hears the weak, rough rasp of Sam’s voice.

“Yeah, Sammy, I’m right here. I’m gonna take care of you, you’re gonna be fine, you hear me?” Dean growls through a tight throat.

“Where’s Ruby?”

Dean’s jaw clamps shut, his teeth gritting together. The EMT starts asking Sam simple questions, which Sam answers about thirty percent of the time.

Sam grabs hold of Dean’s arm when the arrive at the hospital.

“Dean, you need to find Ruby,” he begs, his eyes glazed, “Please. I  _ need _ her. Please.”

Dean pats Sam’s arm, but says nothing, allowing the EMTs to roll Sam through the emergency room doors as he trails along behind.

A fresh-faced young doctor takes over, checking Sam’s condition and shooting rapid questions at both Sam and Dean. She briskly hooks Sam up to machines to monitor his vitals while Dean hovers. She also takes stock of the track marks on Sam’s arms and shakes her head.

“Your brother appears to have suffered an accidental overdose of recreational opioids, probably heroin, and the cold certainly didn’t do him any good. He’s responding well to the naloxone, and there’s no sign of hypothermia, but I’d like to admit him so we can keep an eye on his heart rate, temperature, and breathing. Judging from the track marks on his arms, it’s likely he’ll be experiencing withdrawal symptoms, as well.”

“Fuck,” Dean gulps.

“I’ll get you the paperwork,” the doctor nods and bustles off, leaving the two brothers alone in their corner of the ER.

“I’ll be fine,” Sam insists, reaching out to tug at Dean’s jacket. “Let me borrow your phone.”

“Why?”

“To get a ride out of this place. I know they can’t keep me here.”

“Who’re you going to call? Ruby?”

Sam says nothing. 

“How’d you get to my place in the first place?” Dean asks, deadly calm. “Lying on the ground, in the snow, covered in your own vomit, OD-ing on fucking heroin?  _ Alone _ ?”

“Ruby wouldn’t,” Sam hisses.

“She got scared, dumped your sorry drug addict ass on my doorstep, and  _ left you there _ .”

“No.”

“Stop defending her, Sam.”

“No, give me your phone.”

Dean takes a gamble and thrusts his phone into Sam’s hands. Sam grabs at it desperately, still avoiding eye contact with his brother, punching in the number with shaking hands. Dean watches carefully and snatches the phone away as soon as the call sends. Sam scrambles towards it, pulling at the lines and leads attaching his limbs to the surrounding medical equipment. Dean deliberately holds the phone up, showing Sam the screen as he hits speakerphone.

“ _ The number you have dialed is currently out of service _ ,” the tinny recorded voice echoes through the ER. Dean ends the call and hands the phone back to Sam.

Sam makes a desperate gagging noise, and frantically redials. Dean can faintly hear the message play from where Sam holds the phone against his ear.

“No, she  _ can’t _ . I  _ need _ her,” Sam insists, staring down at the phone, wild eyed. 

“Sammy, you need  _ help _ ,” Dean says, placing a hand on his brother’s broad, shaking shoulder. Sam flinches away.

“Don’t call me that.”

Dean cringes at Sam’s icy tone and squares his shoulders. “I’m gonna go sort out your paperwork,” Dean tells him before stalking away.

There is a mountain of paperwork. It makes Dean grit his teeth when he can’t answer even the most basic questions about his brother, but he slogs through the forms anyway rather than face Sam’s haggard, distressed, and desperate expressions. He avoids any thought on the dollar amount he’s going to be facing on the hospital bills when Sam checks out. Dean doubts that Sam wastes any of his drug money on health insurance.

He takes longer than he should to return to Sam’s side with the remainder of the forms that Sam himself needs to sign.

“Hey,” Sam greets him without looking up.

“You’re still here,” Dean observes pointlessly. Sam squirms.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Dean drops the admittance and consent forms onto Sam’s lap and holds out a pen. Sam’s shaky fingers play with the edges of the paper and he doesn’t reach for the pen.

“The doctor came back when you were gone,” Sam says. “She says I’m an addict. She wants me to consent to detox treatment.” Dean is quiet as Sam fiddles with the forms in his lap.

“Is she right?” Dean finally asks.

“Yeah,” Sam whispers. 

Dean swallows the lump in his throat. “Okay.” He coughs awkwardly. “Okay, well, we’re going to get you better.”

“Dean, I can’t - I don’t -” Sam stutters, and Dean’s heart breaks. “I’m scared.”

This is so beyond Dean’s comfort level. He closes his eyes and rubs circles into his temple where a headache is starting to beat. 

“Well, you’re still here,” Dean points out. “That’s gotta mean something, right?”

“I wasn’t going to be,” Sam confesses. “As soon as you were out of sight, I was gone.”

Dean thinks his heart stops, imagining the empty hospital bed and the gut-wrenching possibility of losing his brother forever. 

Sam seems to notice his discomfort and keeps talking. “I think Dr. Lam noticed, and she sent someone over to talk me down. This woman - I don’t know, she might actually be an angel - she was, well, she was kind of scary, actually. Real take-no-shit, you know? Anyways, she said… some things... and here I am. Still here.”

“Good,” Dean repeats. 

“But, um,” Sam starts fidgeting again, “I still don’t know about this detox shit. It’s - you get real sick, right? I bet there’s another way. All-natural, no hospitals. If I can get a hold of Ruby, she’ll know.”

At the sound of Ruby’s name, Dean snaps. “No. Sam, that sick bitch left you to die, and I am not letting that happen. Sign the goddamned papers, and be grateful that I’m here instead of Bobby and Ellen, because they’d have a shotgun on you instead of sending angel-doctors to talk to you.”

Sam’s face blanches and he lifts the pen out of Dean’s hand. His hand shakes as he signs the documents.

“Don’t tell them,” Sam pleads as he hands the pen and papers back to Dean. “Uncle Bobby and Aunt Ellen. Please don’t tell them.”

“They’re going to find out eventually,” Dean warns, and Sam nods.

“Yeah. Ok. But I’ll tell them myself.” Sam swallows, looking a little green. “When I’m… um… better.”

“When you’re better,” Dean agrees, and takes the papers to return to the staff. He catches a glimpse of Dr. Lam in the bustle of the ER and flags her down.

“How can I help you, Mr. Winchester?” she asks pertly.

“My brother just signed the consent forms for the detox treatment,” Dean informs her. She smiles.

“That’s good to hear. I wish you both the best of luck.”

“Thanks. He mentioned you sent some woman to talk to him? I wanted to thank her, too. You guys probably saved my brother’s life.”

“Her name’s Jessica Moore. You can find her on the third floor,” Dr. Lam tells him. Dean thanks her again, and hurries back to Sam’s side.

The hospital doesn’t have any long-term drug recovery programs, but Sam’s impending heroin detox, compounded by his overdose and prolonged exposure to the cold merits him a semi-private room and a team of doctors, nurses, and medical equipment. Dean attaches himself to Sam’s side until a particularly intimidating male nurse shoos him away, citing visiting hours and finally telling Dean off for getting in the way of their treatment procedures. At a loss, Dean wanders up to the third floor.

Jessica Moore, DNP, ARNP-BC, ACNP, has her own office. Dean can’t get past the frazzled looking receptionist who wearily turns him away when he admits he doesn’t have an appointment. Dean stands looking lost for a second, wondering exactly how much like a stalker he looks like, and if it would make it better or worse if he just sent flowers instead.

A doctor passing by looks him up and down with hungry, appreciative eyes and leans in to whisper into Dean’s ear, “She get off in an hour.” 

Dean nods thanks and the man gives him a conspiratorial wink as he whisks away quickly. It doesn’t help Dean’s stalker case when he sits down in the reception area to wait. The receptionist glances at him apprehensively every few minutes. He realizes after about twenty minutes that he has no idea how he’s going to recognize the woman he’s looking for since the only things he’s got going for him is her name.

It turns out not to be a problem, because Dean recognizes the sharply dressed young woman who steps through the door separating the reception area from the offices. It’s tall, blonde, and gorgeous from the Cleveland hospital, the one who comforted him after his Dad died.

“It’s  _ you _ ,” Dean blurts out.

“Wait, are  _ you _ gorgeous stalker guy?” she asks in disbelief.

“You’re Jessica Moore,” Dean realizes, the name connecting in his memory, “ _ Jess _ .”

“Um. Yeah,” she replies warily. “And you’re Dean.”

“You remember me?” he says, honestly surprised. Her expression softens.

“The guy from Cleveland. Kind of hard to forget a face like yours, dude,” she teases. Her face flushes red as she admits, “also, you were kind of all over the news.”

Dean winces, smacking himself mentally for forgetting that little detail.

“I don’t want to be rude, but what the hell are you doing here?” she says. 

“You, uh, you talked to my brother earlier today. Down in the ER,” Dean begins, a little hesitant to bring up the fact that his brother is a drug addict in the middle of a hospital waiting room. “Sam?”

Jess must know what he’s referring to, though, because her eyes immediately fill with something that looks like pity and she motions for him to follow her.

They end up in a quiet little corner next to a vending machine, seated on a couple of low benches covered in drab, grey-ish upholstery. Jess looks at Dean expectantly. He clears his throat.

“I just wanted to thank you, you know, for talking to Sam. If it weren’t for you I probably never would have seen him again.” Admitting it out loud caused a wave of pain to rock through Dean.

“Is he ok?” Jess asks, watching him with concern but thankfully not commenting. Dean shoots her a look and she smiles sheepishly. “Ok, wrong question. Did he end up getting help?”

“Yeah,” Dean replies. “He’s all set up downstairs, monitors and IVs and scary nurses and everything. Dr. Lam from the ER gave me your name, by the way, I swear I’m not a stalker. I had no idea who you were until I saw you.”

Jess laughs.

“Yeah, ok, handsome stalker guy.”

“Handsome, yes, stalker, no.”

“You might have your own stalker now, though, I think Dr. Shiroma is in love with you. You should have seen the look on his face when he told me about the hunk waiting to jump me in the waiting room.”

Dean shivers and Jess laughs again. It’s a nice sound, warm and bright and normal and free from both judgment and innuendo. It’s just what he needs to hear after being on edge about Sam for most of the day.

“I’m really glad to hear that he got himself some help,” Jess says, turning the conversation back to the serious. “And I’m glad that you finally found your brother.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees lamely. They sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, before Dean breaks it again. “So do you make a habit of having heart-to-hearts with strange men in hospitals?” 

“Only the cute ones.”

“You think my little brother’s cute, huh,” Dean teases, noting Jess’s faint blush in response.

“ _ Little _ brother?” she smirks to hide her flustered expression. Dean groans.

“Oh god, I know. I think the GEs had a typo in his height stats.”

“I think the GEs did a great job,” she grins.

“Mm-hmm, ‘course you do,” Dean nods, and Jess blushes again. 

“How’d you get from Cleveland to Chicago, anyway?” he asks in lieu of teasing her more about her apparent crush on his brother. 

“I was in Cleveland for a fellowship, getting my AC credentials,” she explains.  “Acute care,” she adds in response to Dean’s blank look. “I’m from Chicago, though - well, Geneva, actually - so I wanted to come back when the fellowship ended last month. I was really lucky they had an opening for me here.”

“Yeah, no one actually  _ wants _ to live in Cleveland,” Dean says wryly, and Jess snorts her agreement.

“How about you? How’d you end up here, I mean. Well, I understand why you left Ohio, I guess, sorry, shit,” she trails off, scowling at herself and looking thoroughly embarrassed for bringing up the affair.

“It’s fine. Can’t exactly pretend it didn’t happen,” Dean shrugs, for the first time not feeling like he’s in the spotlight for his mistakes. Other than when he’s around Castiel’s refreshing obliviousness, of course. “I’m planning on going to law school, but I have to take the LSATs before I can apply, and the next LSAT isn’t until June. I wasn’t going to sit around flat broke with my thumb up my ass for half a year, and the only guy who would give me a job after the - uh - incident in Cleveland is here. So here I am.”

“Nice. Law school, huh?” 

“Yup. Status say it’s the path for me.”

Jess scrunches up her face and grunts doubtfully. “So who’s the guy who hired you?” she changes the subject, to Dean’s relief. 

“Castiel Novak.”

“Wait, Michael Novak’s brother? The creepy tax guy in the trenchcoat? You work for him?”

Dean sighs at hearing for himself exactly what the general public thinks of his employer. He has to admit that ‘creepy tax guy’ is exactly what he would call Cas if he didn’t know him personally. He is also a bit disturbed to hear that Cas apparently wears the trenchcoat often enough that people actually identify it with him. Not exactly the public image he’s going for.

“He’s really not creepy, I swear,” Dean assures her. Jess lifts an eyebrow. “I swear,” Dean insists. “He just doesn’t translate well. He’s a really pretty amazing guy when you get to know him. He’s really smart, like  _ really _ smart, and kind of funny, if you can get around the really dry humor, and, ok, the staring is kind of weird, but it’s just because he’s really interested, and kind of awkward, and he  _ cares _ , a  _ lot _ .”

“You like him,” Jess observes, watching his face thoughtfully. Dean shrugs. He hasn’t really thought about it before because he’s been trying to focus on Cas as a job, and as his boss, but he supposes that yeah, ok, he does like him.

“He’s a good guy. We’re working on the whole image thing,” Dean sighs. “Hopefully the next set of photos won’t look so - fuck.”

“Wow, that  _ is _ a whole new image.”

“No. Sorry. Fuck. Sorry,” Dean stammers. “I just remembered that I was supposed to be meeting with some news producer. And, uh, kind of at work in general today.”

“Dean, I think that your brother almost dying is an acceptable excuse to miss a day of work.”

Dean smiles at her gratefully, but stands. “You’re probably right, but I think I should call in anyway. I can’t exactly afford to lose this job.”

Jess nods her understanding and grips the hand Dean extends to shake.

“Thank you, Dr. Moore,” he says, hoping those simple words could convey all of his gratitude.

“Nurse, actually,” Jess corrects with a grin and Dean flushes. “I’m a nurse practitioner. And please call me Jess.”

She regards him for a second, then tugs Dean forward and wraps her arms around his shoulders in a tight hug.

“I’m really glad you found someone,” she says with feeling. Dean’s not sure if she’s referring to him reconnecting to his family, or to finding someone to give him a second chance at a career, but Dean is equally grateful to have found both Sam and Cas, so he decides he doesn’t care.

“Thank you,” Dean replies quietly, wishing he had more words to say. Jess releases him and smiles.

“Go on, go be responsible,” she shoos him away briskly, reminding him strongly of Ellen for a moment.

The hospital staff unceremoniously kick him out, the intimidating nurse in charge of Sam instructing him to come back during visiting hours the next day, and promising to call if there were any changes to his condition. Dean has no choice but to comply. Dean morosely stalks to the Impala in the parking lot and pulls out his phone. He settles himself in the quiet behind the wheel and dials the office.

“Oh, you are so fucked, dude,” Meg’s voice taunts instead of a greeting when the call connects. “Babe is pissed.”

“Jesus, Meg, if that’s how you always answer the phones it’s no wonder people are going around calling Cas ‘creepy tax guy’. You’re like his own personal people repellant,” Dean bites back.

“Caller-ID, asshat,” Meg sniffs. “I’ll have you know I’m extremely personable to people who are not self-involved douchebags.”

“Fuck you very much, Meg,” Dean says with false cheer.

“No thanks, I know where your dick has been,” Meg responds in kind. “I’m totally not kidding about Clarence, though, you should have seen him roll in here this morning, two hours late and looking like he had been dragged behind a bus all night. When you didn’t show for the meeting I thought he was going to bust a nut.”

The image of an angry Castiel starts to form in Dean’s mind and it makes his blood run cold. The guy is intimidating enough when he’s not angry.

“Shit,” Dean mutters.

“Yeah, no kidding. Where were you all day, anyway?”

“You know what, I’d really rather not discuss it with you,” Dean snaps. “Is Cas there?”

“Nope,” Meg pops the ‘p’, and Dean can clearly picture her leaning back in her chair, her feet propped up on her desk, twirling her dark curls around her finger. He shudders.

“Great. Thanks, Meg, you’ve been as helpful as usual,” Dean sighs, ignoring the fact that Meg’s warning about Castiel’s current state of mind probably is, in fact, very helpful.

“Aw, you know how I love to fill your life with joy, hot stuff. Have an ambulance on speed dial,” she advises.

Dean makes a noise somewhere between disgust and acknowledgement and ends the call. It’s when he pulls the Impala up to the front of his building that he realizes that although Meg told him Castiel was not in the office, he never asked where he was instead.

Castiel is sitting on the front steps of Dean’s apartment building, elbows resting on knees, hands loosely clasped, wearing an expression that promises to smite the existence out of anyone who even thinks about approaching him.

They are going to have to have a talk about the smiting expression and how it figures into Michael’s insistence that Castiel employ an image consultant.

If Dean’s blood was already running cold, it freezes solid in his veins at the sight. He can  _ feel  _ Castiel’s eyes fall on the Impala as he drives past and pulls into his usual parking space. Meg’s advice of an ambulance is starting to sound better and better.

Dean attempts to paste a charming ‘please-don’t-fire-me’ smile over his face as he steps up to the building, but it falters the moment Castiel’s eyes meet his. Castiel rises to his feet in one strong, fluid movement. He is wearing the trenchcoat.

“Dean. Are you injured?” Castiel doesn’t bother wasting any time on formalities.

“No. Sorry, a personal emergency came up.”

Castiel levels a squinty frown at him. “Did your phone break? Were you somehow indisposed to the point of being unable to contact me?”

“Um. No, not exactly, but it really was a real emergency,” Dean insists.

“If you are physically unharmed and fully capable of communication, I fail to comprehend what situation would render you unable to excuse yourself from work,” Castiel says. Dean is exhausted, physically and emotionally, and his sense of self-preservation is worn down to nothing. He snaps.

“My  _ brother _ almost  _ died _ this morning, you self-righteous piece of shit,” Dean snarls. “Excuse me for valuing my brother’s life over your precious public image. But just for future reference, let me make this perfectly clear to you - if it comes down to choosing between you and my brother, I am  _ always _ going to choose my brother.”

Castiel doesn’t move a muscle, just stares at Dean. Dean is too drained to even quiver at the heavy gaze.

“Understood,” Castiel growls softly.

Dean blinks. “What?”

“I acknowledge that your family has a right to be a priority in your life,” Castiel explains. “Now you understand this - if you ever again fail to appear to work without assuring me of your wellbeing you will no longer be employed.”

Dean sifts through Castiel’s words and comes to a startling conclusion. “You were worried,” he realizes.

“The last time I saw you, you were severely intoxicated and outside in a snowstorm. When you didn’t arrive at work as discussed, and we were unable to locate you, I feared the worst,” Castiel confesses. “You could have slipped in the snow and injured yourself, or tried to drive your car, drunk and on icy roads, or any number of tragedies.”

“Cas,” Dean breathes, reaching out to clasp a hand over the other man’s shoulder. “I - it never occurred to me that you would worry like that. I’m sorry.”

“No, Dean, it’s not your fault. Your attention was in the right place. I overreacted. When I got here, one of your neighbors mentioned that she saw an ambulance outside the building early this morning and I thought…” Cas ducks his head.

“Cas, how long have you been sitting out here?” Castiel’s silence means the answer is way too long. “Jesus, come inside and get warm. You really should get a warmer coat,” Dean comments, moving the hand still on Cas’ shoulder and feeling the thin fabric of the trenchcoat.

“I like this coat,” Castiel protests. “And thank you, but I really should get home. I apologize for overreacting and accosting you like this.”

“Oh,” Dean tries to squash the feeling of disappointment at being left alone in his distress. “At least let me give you a ride.”

Castiel opens his mouth to object, but he must glimpse something in Dean’s expression and closes it again. He nods and his lips twitch into a slight, shy smile. “Thank you. I would appreciate that.”

Dean ushers Castiel into the Impala and they strike up a mundane conversation about musical preferences that soothes Dean’s frayed nerves, even if Cas likes crappy music. By the time he returns home from dropping Castiel in front of his posh high-rise condo, Dean is feeling at least a little more collected, if not calm. Things can only get better from here, he assures himself as he heads inside to count the hours until he can return to Sam’s side in the hospital.


	7. Fresh Starts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Meg so much. Here, have some happy times to make up for the last chapter.

Dean’s LSAT prep class is at Northwestern University on Monday and Wednesday afternoons, and Saturday mornings. He misses the first day checking Sam out of the hospital. Sam is pale and thin and shaky, clutching a stack of brochures about local, long-term rehab programs. The drive from the hospital to Dean’s apartment is heavy with tense silence. When they arrive, Sam trails Dean up the stairs and into the little apartment, his hands tight around the plastic Walmart bags that hold the few necessities they had stopped to pick up on the way, since all the rest of Sam’s meager possessions had disappeared with Ruby.

“So, um, this is it,” Dean gestures awkwardly to the space around them. “Welcome home, I guess. The couch is a pull-out, so you should be ok. Hope it’s not too uncomfortable.”

“Dean,” Sam sighs, “thank you, but maybe I should just check into one of these inpatient programs.”

“No!” Dean protests, maybe a little too quickly. Sam lifts an eyebrow. “No, I mean, it’s fine that you’re here. I know you don’t have money for the full residential shebang. And, you know, I don’t mind being able to keep an eye on you.”

“You don’t trust me,” Sam concludes, resigned. 

“No. Sam, No.” Dean sits down on one of the hard kitchen chairs and scrubs a hand over his forehead. “It’s just - you were gone for so many years, and now you’re back and…” he trails off with a helpless gesture.

“Yeah. I don’t want to lose you either.” Sam pulls out another chair and the brothers sit side by side pointedly not looking at each other. “I just don’t get it. After the way I treated you - why the hell would you even care.”

“You’re family,” Dean states firmly, recalling the same words being said to him. “That’s what family does. You fight and yell and treat each other like crap, and at the end of the day when shit hits the fan, you’re there to clean each other up. Or something like that.”

Sam chances a glance over at him. “Sounds like something Aunt Ellen would say,” he says finally, breaking the tension. Dean grins.

“Where’d you think I got that chick flick shit from?” 

Sam smiles, small but genuine.

“You’re not the only one who fucked up,” Dean adds quietly.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees.

Sam’s eyes flicker over the sparse contents of the apartment and catch on the LSAT class schedule Dean hung up on the fridge door. Sam frowns at it.

“LSATs?” Sam’s voice sounds accusing, and Dean should have anticipated a less-than-stellar reaction to his career choice, but he’s still surprised by it.

“Uh-huh. I got sick of getting called out on my stats. Is that a problem?” Dean is immediately defensive.

“I thought you liked PR?” Sam sounds more confused than anything. 

“I do,” Dean admits, “but it’s complicated. You may think stats are shit, but the people hiring? They care. Law school is easier.”

Sam looks like he desperately wants to argue, but keeps his mouth shut. Dean squirms in his seat. Sam glances back at the schedule, frowning again, and adding an accusing finger pointed at the blue slip of paper.

“This is tonight,” Sam indicates the date. Dean shrugs.

“Family,” he counters. “Now are you going to let me cook you some kickass burgers or are you going to keep whining?”

Sam makes a sour face, but his heart’s not in it, so Dean just laughs and starts bustling around the kitchen. Sam’s appetite isn’t quite back, yet, so he only picks at his burger and asks Dean questions about his life. Dean restrains himself from asking about Sam, trusting that his brother will talk when he’s good and ready.

About halfway through the meal, Dean’s phone, which is sitting on the table top near his left hand, lights up and buzzes with a text message. Sam cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of the name on the screen.

“Anna?” Sam reads. “New girlfriend?”

“No,” Dean snorts. “Just a friend.”

“Oh.”

“Anna Milton, actually,” Dean adds. “She got me the job with Cas after, you know, the last thing. She’s Cas’s sister.”

“Anna  _ Milton _ . Cas’s sister,” Sam starts to put the pieces together. “Your  _ Cas _ is actually Castiel  _ Novak _ ? You work for  _ Castiel Novak _ ?”

“Easy there, tiger,” Dean says, patting Sam’s arm as the man practically chokes on a sip of water with realization. “Geez, why’d you get all the memory stats? I couldn’t even remember the guy’s name until Anna told me.”

“Dean, the Novaks are  _ famous _ ,” Sam explains condescendingly with corresponding expression, as if Dean can’t possibly be serious.

“Yeah, well, not Cas,” Dean shrugs. Sam stares at him for a beat.

“Can I meet him?”

Dean’s eyebrows fly up.

“Uh, sure. But, uh,  _ why _ ?”

“You know,  _ Novak _ ,” Sam says weakly, hands fluttering in vague indication of his meaning. Dean stares him down.

“You’re still a politics geek, huh,” Dean observes, a grin slowly creeping across this face. “Even after all these years. Don’t even try and deny it.”

“What! No, I’m just, uh, interested,” Sam hedges. Dean leers.

“Such a geek.”

“Shut up. Like you’re not.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.” A tiny smile creeps across Sam’s face as he shakes his head. Dean glows. 

“Tell you what, I’ll bring you by the office some time and you can geek out over Cas all you want,” Dean promises. Sam agrees and they both go to bed that night feeling not quite at ease, but not quite at odds, either. 

Dean’s tentatively good mood evaporates when he gets to the office the next morning after leaving Sam alone in the apartment, and Meg is sitting behind the reception desk, grinning like the cat the got the canary. 

“I was getting kinda worried you weren’t coming back,” Meg says. “The last one only lasted a day. A week is pretty good for a consultant around here.”

“I wonder what could possibly be driving them away,” Dean’s voice drips with sarcasm. “It sure as hell isn’t Cas.”

“Cas, huh? Getting awfully familiar with the bossman, aren’t we now,” Meg drawls, kicking her feet up onto the desk as she looks Dean over.

“Says the woman trying to get into his pants every five minutes,” Dean snorts. Meg sighs dramatically.

“It’s not my fault I have the wrong equipment down below,” she pouts. 

“Jesus, Meg, were you a rabbit in a previous life or something?” Dean shakes his head. “Between the gossip and the horniness it’s a miracle you function.”

“Ha. Look who’s talking, Mister Can’t-Keep-It-In-His-Pants who lost his job because of his dick,” Meg quips. “That what your mysterious disappearance the past few days was all about? New piece of ass? Taking your dick out for a drive? I guess what we got in the office isn’t good enough for you?”

“I think I just threw up a little. As if I would let you within ten feet of my dick.”

“Aw, sugar, you can only dream of being so lucky. I was talking about the hottie boss, though, I know you have trouble keeping your hands off authority figures.”

“This may come as a shock to you, but not everyone fucks everything that moves indiscriminately.”

“Wow, you must be dumber than I thought, because anyone with eyes can see that Clarence is smokin’.”

“I’m not talking about his attractiveness, I’m talking about the fact that he’s a dude.”

“Mmm. Exactly. I bet his dick is gorgeous.”

“Jesus, Meg!”

“Don’t tell me you weren’t thinking it.”

“I was not thinking about Cas’s dick!”

Of course, Cas chooses that exact moment to walk out of his office. He fixes Dean with a disgruntled look and Dean begs the ground to open up underneath him and swallow him whole. Meg, of course, grins like a maniac.

“Dean, have you rescheduled the meeting with the producer from Channel 3?” Castiel asks, all too accustomed to ignoring Meg’s lewdness. 

“Not yet. I’ll call him today,” Dean replies grateful for the respite from Meg. “I was thinking we could reschedule for next Tuesday? Tomorrow’s too soon, and I’m probably going to be taking care of some - uh - personal business on Monday.”

“Oo, what happens on Monday,” Meg grasps at Dean’s comment like a dog at a bone.

“It’s  _ personal _ , Meg,” Dean says tiredly.

“Another meeting with the clandestine lover?”

“It’s for my brother, for god’s sake,” Dean finally snaps. Meg looks at him quietly for a second and for one glorious moment Dean almost thinks she’s going to drop the subject.

“You’re fucking your brother?”

Dean groans, and Castiel whirls on Meg, the lines of his body tight with anger. He looms over her before leaning in close and muttering darkly into her ear. Meg freezes while Dean smirks, somehow not surprised that Cas is perfectly capable of striking fear into even the coldest of hearts.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says, turning away from a pouting Meg and nodding politely to the other man. “I trust that you have everything under control.”

Castiel wanders off down the hall, probably towards the coffee machine since he regularly guzzles caffeine as if it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Dean and Meg blink at each other.

“So, your parents spring for the romance novel eyes on your brother, too?” Meg asks as Dean rolls the eyes in question. Meg grins and they settle into an uneasy truce for the rest of the day.

Around lunchtime, a tiny waif of a girl with ebony dark skin and playfully bright eyes breezes into the office. She narrows her eyes when she sees Meg lounging on the reception desk, eating Chinese takeout from a cardboard carton. 

“Get your butt and your nasty, greasy-ass food off my desk,” she orders in a quiet, but fierce voice. Meg leaps off the piece of furniture in question, setting her food down and wrapping her arms around the girl.

“Cheryl’s back!” Meg shouts in the vague direction of Castiel’s office, as Cheryl squirms out of her arms and glares. Meg nods at Dean, peering at them over the edge of his desk. “Check out the new eye candy.”

Cheryl blinks curiously at Dean. “You’re the new publicist,” she concludes. “You’re still here.”

“He’s got the hots for the angel,” Meg tells her conspiratorially. Cheryl rolls her eyes and sticks her hand out for Dean to shake.

“Please tell me that Castiel didn’t let her answer the phones while I was out,” Cheryl begs Dean. He chuckles.

“I think he would disconnect the phone lines before he let that happen,” Dean assures her. “I’m Dean.”

“Cheryl,” she replies, her handshake firm and her smile shy. 

Cheryl is as quiet and conscientious as Meg is loud and lewd, and she provides a welcome buffer in the office dynamic. Even Cas seems more relaxed with her around, and Dean’s good mood is restored by the time he gets home.

Sam greets him with an announcement that he has chosen a rehab clinic, and already called them to enroll in their outpatient program. He’ll live at home, but spend his days at the clinic while Dean is at work. Sam admits that he may have chosen that particular clinic based on a recommendation from one nurse Jessica Moore at the hospital. Dean’s good mood deepens.

The next day, Dean carts Sam to the office for the promised meeting with Castiel. Unfortunately, Dean forgot one tiny detail in this plan: Meg. She’s leaning on the edge of Cheryl’s desk, chattering away about the club she went to the previous night while Cheryl eyes her resentfully. Meg’s eyes pop wide the second she catches sight of Sam’s bulk looming behind Dean.

“Fuck,” Dean curses under his breath.

Meg giggles gleefully. She fucking giggles. Gleefully. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever heard a more chilling sound in his life.

“You must be the  _ brother _ I’ve been hearing so much about!” Meg scrambles around the side of the desk, to Cheryl’s sigh of relief, practically shoving Dean out of the way to look the almost solid foot up to Sam’s face. She inspects him hungrily.

“Uh, hi,” Sam says cautiously, looking towards Dean a little desperately.

“Yeah, this is Meg. I suggest you cover your ears so you can’t hear anything that comes out of her mouth, because I guarantee it will be poison that will slowly eat your brain from the inside out,” Dean sighs, tugging Sam to sidestep around Meg’s small, but unmovable form in front of him.

“Aw, I didn’t know you thought so highly of me, honey-bunch!” Meg leers at Dean. “I can see why you’re so into your brother, though.”

Dean ignores her. 

“Cheryl, Sam, Sam, Cheryl,” Dean gestures between the two, and they give each other polite nods. 

“I think it’s real sweet how  _ close _ you two are,” Meg is still talking, and Dean is still ignoring her.

“Sam wanted to meet Cas. He in his office?”

“Ye - es,” Cheryl stutters, also ignoring Meg like a pro. She glances down at the watch on her wrist. “But I’m not so sure you want to go back there right now.” 

“Everything OK?” Dean feels a coil of concern twisting in his gut.

“Um. Well, yes, but,” Cheryl continues to stammer. Dean frowns at her.

“I kind of needed to talk to him.”

“Wouldn’t do that right now if I were you,” Meg warns lazily, leaning on the front door jam and inspecting her vividly purple nails. 

“Is he ok? What happened?” Dean is flat out worried now. Meg sighs.

“Let me worry about babe,” she says, “you worry about your sasquach. He looks like he’s about to yak up a lung any second.”

Dean’s frown deepens and he slips past Cheryl.

“I’ll be quick,” he promises. After a moment’s thought he grabs Sam’s arm, ignoring his protests, and drags his brother after him, rather than leave him alone with Meg for any length of time.

Dean peers apprehensively through the cracked opening in Castiel’s office door. Cas is - sitting at his desk, back perfectly straight, brow furrowed, glaring down at some papers on his desk as if they had personally offended him. Dean isn’t sure what he expected, but he doesn’t think that this is it.

He taps his knuckles on the door.

“Hey, Cas?”

Castiel’s head flies up and the poisonous glare that was previously directed at his desk is now directed at Dean. Dean resists the urge to slink away, starting to understand Meg and Cheryl’s insistence to leave Castiel alone.

“Hello, Dean.”

Nothing further. Just a solemn, silent glare.

“Uh.” Dean swallows, trying to collect himself. “Everything ok?”

Castiel’s eyes narrow just a fraction.

“Yes.”

“Oh, ok. Ok, good,” Dean stammers. He is pretty sure that the wrath of God is going to smite him down where he stands if Cas keeps glaring at him like that. “I - uh - I brought my brother.”

Castiel’s glare shifts from Dean up to Sam, standing dumbfounded behind him.

“I can see that.”

Sam shifts his weight uncomfortably, then impulsively steps forward and sticks his hand out to shake. Cas takes it with surprising grace, despite his threatening expression.

“Hi. I’m Sam.” He pumps Castiel’s hand enthusiastically. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Novak.”

“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well,” Castiel replies flatly, sounding anything but pleased. Dean coughs nervously. He gives Sam a meaningful look, and he ducks back into the hallway, leaving Dean and Cas alone. 

“Are you OK, Cas? Really, be honest, ‘cause you’re acting kind of -” Dean gestures vaguely.

“Dean, it’s  _ very _ early in the morning.”

Dean blinks. He presses his lips together to hold in a giggle. “Wow. Not a morning person, huh.”

Castiel’s shoulders slump, and he glares mournfully up at Dean. Dean looks him over again, this time noticing the dark circles under his eyes, the ruffled hair flattened on one side, the wrinkled suit - the same one he was wearing yesterday.

“Jesus, did you even sleep last night?” Dean asks.

“Yes. I have a couch.” Cas gestures at the overstuffed, undersized, undoubtedly uncomfortable piece of furniture tucked into the corner of the office, one end still covered in a stack of files. 

“You didn’t even go home?” Dean is scandalized. “Have you eaten breakfast?”

Castiel’s eyes dart away guiltily. Dean scowls and grabs his arm, tugging him along just like he did with Sam.

“We’re going to breakfast,” Dean informs him. Dean waves Sam down as they pass him lingering in the hallway. “Breakfast,” he says to Meg and Cheryl, who goggle at the three men as Dean leads them out the front door. The two ladies shrug and follow.

“There’s a diner on the corner that has great pie,” Meg suggests once they’re out on the street.

“Pie? I’m sold,” Dean agrees.

“You and pie. Some things never change, I guess,” Sam chuckles.

“Pie for breakfast?” Castiel wrinkles his nose.

“There’s no such thing as a bad time for pie,” Dean insists.

The diner is mostly empty, since it’s a little too late for a pre-work breakfast, and much too early for lunch. Sam still looks a little green at the sight of greasy food, but he pushes some bacon around his plate and Cas tries to drown himself in the biggest cup of coffee he can beg out of the waitress. 

Sam, being the geek he is, brings the conversation around to politics, which perks Castiel up, and makes Dean tune out. Dean is smiling over pictures of Cheryl and her boyfriend’s new puppy when his ears catch Sam’s voice saying, “You should run for office.” Dean’s head whips around in time to see Castiel’s shoulders stiffen and his jaw clench.

“I can’t do that,” Castiel states. Meg rolls her eyes and nudges Cas in the side with her elbow.

“See? I’ve been trying to tell him that for years,” Meg sighs to Sam. “He’d have an army of little old ladies campaigning for him, and I bet you anything he could pull this state out of debt with his pinkie.”

“No one would vote for me,” Castiel argues. “I’m  _ supposed _ to  _ not _ be appealing to voters.”

“I’d vote for you,” Cheryl chimes in. 

“Yeah, I’d definitely vote for you,” Sam agrees. “I’ve never heard someone with such a good grasp of economics and tax code.”

“What’s Cas running for?” Dean asks.

“State Comptroller,” Sam informs him.

“Oh god, yes,” Dean nods. “It’s perfect.”

“I can’t,” Cas says again, glaring icily at the rest of the table. “I just - I can’t. I’m not supposed to.”

“Fuck supposed to,” Sam declares vehemently. “Genetic stats are a fucking joke designed to oppress the lower classes and take away personal autonomy.” 

“Hear, hear,” Meg shouts.

Castiel gapes at them. Dean frowns at the old argument from Sam, but shrugs at Cas.

“Y’know, Cas, they’re not entirely wrong. You’re perfect for the job, and as for the people thing, well,” Dean flashes his most charming smile, “that’s why you hired me, isn’t it?”

“I hired you at Michael’s insistence so you can make  _ him _ look good,” Castiel grumbles. He swallows hard. “Michael might actually kill me if I try to break into politics.”

“If he does, I guarantee you that I will connect him to the murder and he’ll never be president,” Meg promises. “And no way can he hire an assassin better than mine.”

Sam looks a little pale at her statement and Cheryl wrinkles her nose.

“Castiel,” Cheryl says in her soft voice, “forget Michael for a second. What do  _ you _ want to do? We’re all sitting here and telling you you  _ can _ do this, if you want to. So what do you want?”

“I-” Castiel starts and stops, at a loss for words.

“We’ve got your back, buddy,” Dean assures him.

“I want to help people,” Cas reasons, his hands fidgeting on the table. “I do have a lot of ideas.”

“Good ideas,” Sam adds.

“Angel,” Meg’s voice is uncharacteristically quiet and serious, “I know you don’t really believe all the bullshit about genetics. Remember,  _ I know _ . And if you did, you wouldn’t have hired any of us. You’re not the exception here. Fuck your dad, fuck Michael and all your fucking brothers. It’s all about you, babe.”

Castiel’s expression softens as he looks Meg in the eyes. Meg looks almost vulnerable. Dean can’t help but wonder what their backstory is. Whatever it is, it makes Castiel square his shoulders and look around him at the hodge-podge of people surrounding him. A bust, a norm, an un-modified, a drug addict. 

“Ok,” Castiel says.

“You’ll do it?” Cheryl asks.

“Yes. I will run for comptroller of the state of Illinois in the upcoming election,” he clarifies. Dean grins, Meg cheers, Cheryl claps, Sam pats Cas on the shoulder. 

Dean goes to his LSAT class on Saturday morning, but he’s too busy thinking about Cas’ new campaign to concentrate on the mind-numbingly boring drone of the instructor. Everyone else in the class is a good ten years younger than him, and a few recognize his face from the news and give him smirking glances. He spends most of the class making lists of things he needs to give Castiel the best possible chance of winning this election.

On Monday, Dean drops Sam off at his chosen rehab clinic, suddenly feeling like they’ve gone back in time twenty years or so, when a younger Dean would walk a smaller Sammy to school every morning. He shakes his head and bottles a few more feelings.

He walks into the office with an eager smile on his face and a list of campaign tactics in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [Tumblr](http://jailikechai.tumblr.com)


	8. The Candidate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some Destiel!

The photographer is scheduled to show up at 10. Castiel needs campaign photos.

“You didn’t sleep,” Dean accuses the minute he sees Castiel’s haggard face when he get to the office just before 9 a.m., holding a newly tailored suit fresh from the dry cleaners for Cas to wear. He thinks the suit Castiel is currently wearing is the same one from last night, but it’s difficult to tell since all of his clothes are practically identical.

“Neither did you,” Castiel returns with a scowl. Dean grimaces and wonders if he looks as tired as his boss. His LSAT class is kicking his ass. Mostly because he spends all his free time enthusiastically working on Castiel’s new campaign instead of begrudgingly studying. 

“Oo, what were you boys up to all night not sleeping?” Meg pokes her head into the office, her trademark smirk already firmly in place.

“Nothing fun,” Dean grumbles and Castiel grunts in agreement.

“Maybe you should try the whole ‘not sleeping’ thing together next time. Betcha that would be more fun,” Meg suggests. 

Castiel glares at her silently as he stomps down the hall for a fresh cup of coffee. 

“Is this a ‘he won’t sleep with me so let me get my sex vicariously through you’ thing, Meg? ‘Cause I hate to break it to you, but I’m still not gay.” Dean sinks into one of the uncomfortably upholstered chairs that face Castiel’s desk, watching Meg lean in the doorway.

“Right,” Meg smirks. “And I’m not a stunning, genius savant.”

Dean lifts an eyebrow. Meg rolls her eyes.

“Fuck you, Dean Winchester.” 

“Shut up, both of you, it’s too early to listen to this,” Castiel orders as he pushes past Meg into the office, clutching his coffee in a mug adorned with painted bees proclaiming it to be a ‘ _ bee _ -utiful day’, a sentiment which Cas doesn’t appear to share. Dean wonders who the mug was a gift from; he certainly can’t imagine Cas buying it for himself.

“Ok, so the photographer is going to be here in an hour,” Dean starts, carefully laying the suit he’s holding over a teetering stack of files almost as tall as Meg, and rifling through his own bag to find the details of the photographer’s visit. “I’ve got some notes I want to go over with him, and then we can set up whatever he needs in the conference room, I guess. Meg can help me move around some of the chairs in there.”

“Do I have time to go over some client files?” Castiel asks, eyeing the haphazard papers scattered over his desk.

“Nope, and no,” Meg interjects. Dean frowns at her.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not helping you move furniture, babyface, and angel here can’t drown himself in his numbers, ‘cause I’m going to fix those ungodly dark circles.”

“You can do that?” Castiel peers at her with interest. Meg smiles smugly.

“You two helpless paragons of masculinity smell like insomnia from a mile away, but can you tell that  _ I _ never went home last night?”

“That smells like something entirely different,” Dean grumbles. “And why am I a baby and Cas gets to be an angel?”

“I am intrigued,” Cas says, studying Meg’s face intently. Meg preens.

“You, out.” She points Dean towards the door. “Let me work my magic.”

Dean goes, accompanied by much grumbling, Meg looking like she just won the lottery by getting herself an hour alone and up close to Castiel’s face.

It’s worth it when they emerge just shy of an hour later. The photographer is due to arrive any minute, and Dean is rumpled and slightly sweaty from shifting the heavy conference table and various other boxes, chairs, and office supplies to one side of the conference room to give the photographer room to set up his lights and equipment. Meg pulls open the door with a flourish, waving Castiel into the room.

Dean stiffens and stares. Cas is wearing the new grey suit, and the tailor Dean sent him to earned his exorbitant fee, because the fabric drapes elegantly over the planes and angles of his body, finally framing his square shoulders as they should be, and smoothing over his trim waist and hips. Meg’s magic is apparently effective, because the shadows of exhaustion that normally plague Castiel’s face have disappeared, and she managed to tame his bird’s nest of hair into something that looks purposefully messy instead of neglected.

“I know, right,” Meg whispers directly into Dean’s ear, and he shivers.

Castiel blinks and holds up two ties, one dull red, the other bright blue.

“Which one?” he asks Dean.

Dean’s stomach churns, memories of other red and blue ties bubbling somewhere at the back of his mind, but his eyes are focused solely on Cas’s blue ones as he pulls the blue tie out of Castiel’s outstretched hand and loops it around his neck.

“Matches your eyes.”

Castiel, of course, stares right back. They stand frozen, just a little too close together, Dean’s hands on either end of the tie around Cas’s neck, eyes locked on each other. Meg coughs, and Dean instantly drops his eyes down, busying himself with fixing the tie. He ignores Meg’s pointed smirk.

“Blue also conveys reliability and trustworthiness,” Dean amends hurriedly as he adjusts the collar of Castiel’s shirt and straightens the knot of the tie, just as he did on his first day.

“Yes, of course,” Castiel says. A tiny cough draws everyone’s attention back to the conference room door.

“Hey,” Cheryl says, eyes wide as she observes Dean with his hands still wrapped around the tails of Cas’s tie and Meg watching them with her ever present smirk. “The photographer is here.”

Dean backs away from Castiel quickly, running a hand through his own hair and trying to make himself look presentable. 

“You look fine, Dean,” Castiel assures him as Dean smooths his hands down his wrinkled shirt sleeves.

“Mm-hmm. Fine,” Meg agrees, stretching out the word suggestively. Dean and Castiel both glare at her.

“Can we get rid of her? Just for the day?” Dean begs. Castiel turns his glare on Dean. Meg chuckles.

Dean goes to usher the photographer in, introducing him to Castiel, and even including Meg very graciously. The photographer eyes the small conference room resignedly, setting up his lights as Dean chats with him about his ideas and requirements for the various shots of Castiel they’ll be getting today. Cas hovers around, awkward and interested, and subject to a number of withering looks from the photographer whenever he gets in the way.

Castiel is finally ordered in front of the camera and Dean almost groans out loud when he peers over the photographer’s shoulder to get a glimpse of the first few test shots, in which Cas looks exactly like Creepy Tax Guy, albeit in a better fitting suit, complete with his uncomfortably intense, solemn stare.

“You gotta relax, man,” Dean calls. Castiel glances over the photographer’s shoulder to look at Dean and the camera snaps. Castiel glares at the lights.

“Try to ignore the camera,” the photographer suggests, and Castiel glares at him instead.

“I fail to see how this will result in the intended professional portrayal we requested.”

“C’mon, every single photo of you looks like you think the camera just killed your puppy,” Dean says. “We want people to see the guy who stays up every night for a week helping little old ladies with their finances, not - uh - Creepy Tax Guy.”

The photographer snorts loudly at the nickname, and now Dean glares at him.

“This is what I look like,” Cas says, his head tilting as he squints and leans slightly in Dean’s direction. The camera flashes again.

“Hey - remember what we talked about?” Dean asks. “At the diner? You want to help people. You  _ want _ this.”

“But -”

“Cas.”

“I just - I am what I am, Dean.”

“Ok, so what are you? As established, you’re a guy who stays up all night because you get so wrapped up in doing work for your clients you forget about yourself,” Dean offers. Castiel’s expression starts to soften into one of slight bewilderment. The camera continues to click, but Cas is focused on Dean.

“That’s just because I do not require additional sleep.”

“No, it’s not. It’s because you care about your clients, and you know it. You’re also a guy who doesn’t like pie, which is weird, because, dude,  _ pie _ .”

“How do you know that?” Castiel looks startled.

“I saw the way you looked at my pie at the diner..”

“It was  _ breakfast _ ,” Castiel defends himself.

“I think you’re missing the point of pie. Ok, what else. You like to walk, even though your feet must kill you wearing those dress shoes all the time. Haven’t you ever thought about just getting a pair of sneakers?”

“It’s more economical to walk to work,” Castiel says helplessly.

“Bullshit. You live seven fucking miles away, Cas, and I know for a fact that you’ve got more than enough money to take a cab to and from the office every day for the rest of your life, but you walk anyway.”

“Your favorite color is green,” Meg chimes in from where she is lying flat on her back on top of the conference table, holding her phone up above her face. Castiel’s eyes snap to her.

“What?”

“Your bedroom is green,” Meg explains (“ _ You’ve been in his bedroom? _ ” Dean mutters,) “every single one of your half a billion sweater vests are green, even your phone case is green. Favorite color.”

Castiel coughs and shifts his weight awkwardly. Dean gazes at Meg in surprise, grateful for her assistance and uncomfortably aware of her unexpected intimacy with Castiel. She has been in his  _ bedroom _ and Dean has never even  _ seen _ him wear a sweater vest. Dean is sure that stabbing feeling in his gut can’t possibly be jealousy.

“That’s not exactly -” Castiel tries to protest. Dean cuts him off with a smile.

“Cas, just admit that you’re more than just what your dad and your brothers say you are.  _ This _ is what you are. And we,” Dean includes Meg in his gesture, causing her face to light up with a genuine smile, “would like other people to see and appreciate that.”

Castiel stares at Dean, intense as ever, but with an expression on his face and in his eyes like Dean had somehow lit the sun on fire after a long, dark night.

The camera flashes.

“Ok, I think I got some good shots,” the photographer speaks up. Castiel jolts, having forgotten he was in the room. “If you have that computer nearby, I can set you up with some of the proofs now, but I’ll need to do the rest from my studio.”

“Follow me,” Meg says, leading him out of the room.

Dean draws close to Cas and pats him on the shoulder.

“That was great,” he says with a sincere grin. 

“I - all those things you said,” Castiel stammers. Dean has never heard him at a loss for words before.

“Totally true, Cas. I’ve known you for, what, a few weeks now? And even I can see that you’re more than just a print out of some specs. And Meg really does adore you,” he admits. 

“No one has ever said anything like that to me before.” Castiel still looks a little awestruck and off balance.

“Well, get used to it, buddy,” Dean grins. “‘Cause if you want to win this election, we’re going to turn you into a real live person, whether people want to believe it or not. Including you.”

Castiel lets Dean lead him down the hall to see what Meg and the photographer are working on at Meg’s computer.

Dean gets the email with the proofs of the photos just before the office closes that day. There are some terrible ones of Cas looking particularly squinty and frowny, and some hilarious ones of him with adorably baffled expressions, but also a few real gems of Castiel looking calm and relaxed, and even one with a slight smile.

When Dean gets to the last photo of the set, he lingers for a long time. It’s the last shot the photographer got, a close up of Castiel’s face, his eyes wide and focused, his expression clear and full of unnamable emotions. Dean stares, running his eyes over the curves and angles of the familiar face again and again, searching for some insight into what he saw there, and to what he was feeling when he looked into those unfathomable blue eyes.

~~

The press has a field day when Castiel announces his candidacy. Dean starts earning his salary.  _ Youngest Novak Embraces Political Legacy _ , one headline reads.  _ Can Michael Novak’s Baby Brother Save the State Economy? _ another asks.  _ Intrepid Gen Attempts to Overcome Dismal Specs _ , one proclaims, and Dean’s not sure whether to take it as a compliment or an insult. 

It takes about 14 hours for Anna to call. 

“Oh, Dean, what have you done,” she sighs over the phone.

“Me? I didn’t do anything!” Dean defends. 

“You should have seen the editors meeting when they saw Castiel’s announcement. It’s a shark tank over here. They’re going to eat him alive.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Dean promises.

“ _ Michael _ is going to eat him alive. I don’t even want to think about what he’s going to do to you,” Anna warns.

“Meg assures me that she has grade-A assassins on retainer,” Dean says. He pauses to think. “Don’t report that.”

It takes about 20 hours for Raphael to call.

“What on earth got into your head, Castiel?” Raphael’s cold growl can easily be overheard from the phone, even from the distance between Cas’ office and Dean’s desk.

Castiel’s dismissive responses to Raphael’s protests are the coldest Dean has ever heard him.

Until Lucifer calls around lunchtime on the second day.

Meg turns alarmingly pale when she hears Lucifer’s name through the door of Cas’ office. Castiel says barely a dozen words to the man before slamming the phone down and storming out of his office. He takes Meg out to lunch and Dean and Cheryl don’t see either of them for the rest of the day.

“Didn’t Meg used to work for Lucifer?” Dean asks. Cheryl shrugs.

“That’s what I hear.”

“So what’s the deal?”

“I don’t know the whole story,” Cheryl begins hesitantly. “I know something went down between the three of them, and that’s why Meg works for Castiel instead of Lucifer now. All of Castiel’s brothers are assholes.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to get that impression,” Dean agrees.

Michael doesn’t call. He doesn’t make a statement, doesn’t acknowledge Castiel’s existence at any of his highly publicized campaign appearances. A whole week goes by without a word from the (likely) future president.

The tension is palpable in the office. Castiel grows increasingly more snappish every day that passes without Michael’s reaction. Cheryl takes to conveniently finding work anywhere where Cas is not, and even Meg is walking on eggshells. When the phone rings unexpectedly and Cheryl squeaks and drops her coffee all over her keyboard, Dean decides he’s had enough. He ignores Meg’s protests and pounds on Castiel’s door.

“Cas! Open up, man. We’ve got to talk,” Dean shouts. 

The door swings open so fast Dean almost falls forward into a very wrathful Castiel. Dean clamps a hand over the man’s mouth before he can say anything.

“Shut up,” Dean orders preemptively, even though Cas can’t do much talking around his hand. “You are not going to fire me, and we are going to sit down and talk about this.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow into burning slits, and Dean can feel him snarl under his hand. He is very thankful that he hasn’t been bitten yet.

Meg is staring wordlessly at the two men, and Dean is slightly gratified to see she looks absolutely horrified. Dean looks around when he hears a tiny squeak come from down the hall. Cheryl is poking her head around the corner, her eyes dinner-plate wide as she takes in the scene. Dean looks at Castiel.

“You’re not going to fire me,” he confirms, and, if even possible, Castiel’s eyes grow angrier, but he nods his head slowly. Dean removes his hand, and Castiel scowls at him before turning to Cheryl.

“Yes, Cheryl?” Castiel asks with surprising calm. 

“Oh,” Cheryl says in a small voice. She swallows. “Oh. Castiel. He’s - he’s here. Michael.”

Everyone freezes.

“Thank you, Cheryl,” Castiel says quietly.

“What the hell,” Meg growls dangerously. “How the fuck is he  _ here _ .”

“Um,” Dean says stupidly.

Castiel closes his eyes and heaves a sigh, his shoulders slumping, and Dean watches him with concern.

“We will talk later,” he says to empty space, not meeting Dean’s eye for once, and walks resolutely down the hall towards the reception area. Dean and Meg watch him go.

“He’s not supposed to be here,” Meg snarls again, through gritted teeth.

“This family is seriously fucked up, huh,” Dean observes. Meg looks up at him, her usually smug and smirking face deadly serious for once.

“Try not to be a dick,” she pleads. “It’s - you’ll see. I know it’s hard for you, but if you really care about Castiel as much as you’ve been claiming, please, please try not to be a dick.”

Dean gawks at her. He has actually never heard Meg use Castiel’s full name, it’s always babe, or angel, or, inexplicably, Clarence. 

“Yeah, ok,” he blurts out in his surprise.

Senator Michael Novak, two irritated looking assistants, a gleeful reporter, and a big burly guy with a deceptively cheerful face who looks like security, are arranged in front of the reception desk. Michael is exactly how he looks in the papers and pictures and ads. He’s tall, maybe an inch taller than Cas, and an inch shorter than Dean, built on solid, square, masculine lines, with dark hair peppered with dignified grey, the ideal image of a trustworthy politician. His eyes are not as blue as Cas’s.

Michael has his hands on Castiel’s shoulders, his face frozen in a professional politician’s smile, his powerful, pleasant voice deep and smooth as he artfully criticizes his brother. 

“Honestly, Castiel, it is remarkable that you are still here in this little office doing the same work after so many years,” Michael effuses with a smile, “one would think you would have moved on to bigger and better things long ago, but you have shown so much dedication and endurance.”

“I hope that my dedication and experience will serve me well in my bid for office,” Castiel counters coldly. He is stiffer than Dean has seen him since they first met, tense with his usual intensity, but unusually not meeting Michael’s eyes in his signature stare.

“Ah, yes, you are running for the State Comptroller,” Michael nods. “Are you certain you are prepared for such responsibility, Castiel? Although, I suppose you always were precocious as a small child.”

“I am the best candidate for the position,” Castiel responds. Michael lifts his eyebrows and vaguely smirks. Dean tenses when he reaches out to straighten Castiel’s crooked tie, the same blue one Dean picked out for the photo shoot.

“This man honestly has always been impossible with the small things like tying neckties properly,” Michael jokes to the reporter, who grins and hastily scribbles down a note. Michael turns his attention back to Castiel. “You should wear red next time, it suits you better.”

Dean’s hands clench at his sides and Meg brushes his arm and scowls at him in a reminder of his promise. The slight movement catches Michael’s eye and his attention snaps to them.

“Meg,” Michael smiles and steps forward to lean down and kiss her cheek. She sneers.

“Cheers, Vader,” she drawls, and Dean holds back a snort of amusement at her apt nickname for the man. “Dismal to see you, as always.”

“Come now, Meg, let’s play nice. I’m surprised that Castiel pays you enough to keep your interest here. I thought you would have gone running back to Hollywood and Lucifer long ago.”

“Angelface here keeps my interest in other ways.” Meg’s smirk is back in place, but beneath it Dean can see a menace that’s not usually present in her teasing expression. 

“How silly of me to think that little things like sexual orientation could keep my little brother safe from your - ah - appetite,” Michael snipes with a cold smile. “You’ve certainly proved your enthusiasm in the past.”

The corner of Meg’s eye twitches. Dean starts making a mental list of all the reasons he shouldn’t punch Michael Novak in the face.

“Although you also have a new addition to your little operation,” Michael continues smoothly, turning to Dean. His expression appears warm, but his eyes are icy and his smile fake.

“Dean Winchester,” he introduces himself politely, holding out a hand to shake. Michael’s handshake is perfectly firm and professional.

“Michael Novak. I’ve heard a lot about you Mr. Winchester,” Michael says pleasantly.

The report looks up, stares at Dean for a long minute before gasping quietly in recognition and furiously scribbling something on his notepad. Dean’s jaw tightens, and over Michael’s shoulder he can see Cas having the same reaction.

“Is that so?” Dean manages to say, congratulating himself on his calm.

“Despite everything that came of it, it seems you performed your job for Ms. Braeden admirably. It’s surprising that Castiel even requires Meg now that he has your talents to accommodate his needs.”

Dean runs through his list of reasons not to punch Michael in the face. Meg appears to be doing something similar, and the muscles in Cas’s clenched jaw are twitching.

“Michael, is there any particular reason you are here?” Castiel growls. Michael turns to him with wide, surprised eyes.

“To give you a ride to the press conference, of course. It’s more economical if we travel together. Saves gas.”

Castiel’s head tilts.

“Press conference? I have clients coming into the office to sign documents today, I can’t go to a press conference, Michael.”

The reporter’s head is whipping back and forth between Michael and Castiel and his notepad is quickly filling up. Dean is pretty sure that this is the best reporting day in his career.

“Oh, your clients will understand.” Michael waves his hand dismissively. “You know what’s more important. Family, Castiel, that’s your real job.”

Castiel’s shoulders stiffen, but he jerks his head up and down an a nod.

“Of course. Family.” His voice is dull and wooden. Dean shakes himself.

“Great!” Dean slides his Charming Smile on, slipping forward to squeeze Cas’s shoulder. “An endorsement from you will be great for Cas’s campaign! It’s great to see how your family is all there for each other.” Dean has been working in politics for a while now, and he is determined to beat Michael at his own game of underhanded slights and cleverly disguised insults. Michael stares him down.

“Of course, I would be happy to support Castiel’s effort,” he says smoothly with a flicker of a glance towards the reporter.

“Right, so you should probably give me the address of where I need to go,” Dean says.

“ _ You _ ?” Michael is good at disguising the note of disgust in in voice, but not quite good enough.

“Well, I  _ am _ responsible for all of Cas’s press. I wouldn’t be doing my  _ job _ if I let him go off and have a press conference without me. And I doubt that whatever car you came in would be comfortable with all three of us in there.”

“All  _ three _ of you?” Michael’s eyes are doing a good imitation of Castiel’s squinty glare and he’s getting worse at hiding his disgust. Castiel tilts his head so he can see Dean, standing beside him, one hand still heavy on his shoulder. 

“Yeah, me, Cas, and Meg, of course. You wouldn’t expect Cas to go without out his personal assistant, would you?” Dean grins cheerily, looking pointedly at Michael’s own two assistants. “It’s ok, I don’t mind driving.”

Dean has gotten a lot of practice in staring while working for Cas, so he puts it to use, burning his gaze into the senator. 

“Yes, well,” Michael coughs, “Rika can give you the address. I trust that you will be there on time.” Michael motions to one of his assistants.

“I am very reliable in my performance,” Dean assures him and Michael glares.

Meg cackles when Michael and his entourage finally sweep haughtily out of the room and the door clicks shut behind them.

“Oh my god, I thought he was going to shit a brick when you said I was coming too,” she cheers. “Babyface, I think I may have underestimated you.”

“What the hell do either of you think you’re doing,” Castiel interjects, whirling on them, his expression more bewildered than angry. 

“Going to a press conference, apparently,” Dean responds, pulling out his phone to check on the address Michael’s assistant provided.

“Dean,” Castiel hisses. Dean holds up a hand to cut off whatever it is he’s about to say.

“You already promised not to fire me. No take backs.”

“What about your class? You’re supposed to have the afternoon off,” Castiel reminds him.

“Fuck that shit. You really expect me to be able to concentrate on some bullshit test when that douche is crawling around? You’re way more important than the LSATs, Cas.”

“Cheer up, buttercup,” Meg says, slinging an arm around Castiel’s shoulders. “We’re here for ya.” He shrugs her off.

“Michael is  _ my _ family and  _ my _ responsibility,” he declares. 

“Yeah, and he’s also a  _ dick _ ,” Meg sneers. Castiel’s eyes narrow and he opens his mouth to reply, but Dean cuts him off again.

“Look, Cas, we’re not saying don’t go. Go ahead and hang out with your big bro all you want. All we’re saying is that we’re going to be there with you.” Dean reflects. “Also, the whole political press conference thing actually is kind of my job.”

“That’s -” 

“Can it, Clarence,” Meg shuts him down. “We’re going. Pack your bags and get in Dean’s boat.”

“My baby is not a  _ boat _ ,” Dean snaps.

Castiel stares at them, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“I should change my tie,” he mutters, turning towards his office. Dean leans forward to catch his wrist.

“Your tie is fine,” Dean says firmly, looking into the matching blue of Cas’s eyes.

“But Michael-” Castiel protests.

“Do you like the tie?” Dean raises his eyebrows and stares Castiel down the same way he did to Michael. He really is getting better at this. Castiel nods hesitantly. “Then wear the tie. Let’s go.”

Castiel gives Cheryl instructions to call the clients that were supposed to come into the office today, and follows Dean and Meg out the door.

~~

Michael’s press conference is set up outdoors, at a big pavilion near the lake. Dean is instructed to pull the Impala up to the service entrance near the back. They are stopped at the gate.

“Parking pass?” the bored attendant asks when Dean rolls down the window. 

“I don’t have one. Michael told us to come this way, we’re with his brother.” Dean gestures vaguely to Castiel, sitting in the passenger seat.

“No entrance without a parking pass,” the attendant recites. 

“What? No, Michael specifically told us to drive back here and he didn’t say shit about a parking pass.”

The attendant looks at him with a blank expression. “No entrance without a parking pass.”

“C’mon dude, it’s Michael’s  _ brother _ . We’re not some crazies, just let us in.” Dean is getting pissed.

“No en-” the attendant starts his sentence again, but is cut off by the appearance of Michael’s beefy security guard approaching from the general direction of the main pavilion.

“Thank god,” Dean sighs, and calls out to the security guy, “hey, man, tell this guy we’re cool. We’re dropping off Castiel.”

“No entrance without a parking pass,” the security guard repeats and Dean’s mouth drops open. “Mr. Novak can follow me.”

Mr. Security pulls open the passenger’s side door and motions for Castiel to get out of the car. Cas shoots Dean a look that might seem neutral to an outside observer, but Dean reads the mild panic in his eyes.

“Hey, no worries, Cas. We’ll grab a space in the main lot and meet you up inside, ok?” Dean tries to make his grin as reassuring as possible. 

“Fuck that,” Meg mutters and scrambles out of the car. “Good luck, Winchester.”

“I apologize, Dean,” Castiel says quietly. “I’ll speak to Michael about this.”

Dean knows exactly how that conversation will go, but he smiles at Cas anyway. 

“Thanks, man, but it’s fine. I’ll see you in a bit.”

Castiel nods, and follows Meg and the security guy towards the buildings, closing the Impala’s door carefully behind him. Once Dean is sure they can’t see him anymore, he groans and slumps down his seat in defeat.

“Sucks, dude,” the parking attendant tells him. Dean shoots him a bitchface that could rival any of Sam’s and backs the car away to rejoin the clusterfuck of general parking.

The press conference is already well underway and Michael is droning on about “equal rights” and “American values” and “genetic imperatives” by the time Dean manages to squirm his way through the crowd to the edge of the stage. He spots Meg standing back a little ways, behind the barriers and surly security personnel eyeing Dean suspiciously. Dean waves at her. Meg turns and lifts her eyebrows, then smirks. Dean rolls his eyes and turns his attention to Michael’s speech.

“Is he simultaneously gay bashing and claiming to be a gay rights supporter?” Dean narrows his eyes as he watches Michael speak from the podium, Castiel standing demurely by his side. 

“Yep.” Meg has her arms crossed over her chest and she is glaring at Michael as if hoping she can liquify his internal organs with the power of her stare.

“And Cas just… lets him?” 

“Clarence is the reason he gets away with it.  _ ‘How could I possibly be against gay rights when my brother is gay’ _ ,” Meg imitates Michael’s self-righteous tones.

“But Cas -”

“Says that it’s his duty to support his family, and that Michael would never do anything to hurt him. Did you know the douchebag is sponsoring a bill that would make it legal for business to fire someone without cause for being gay? Of course it doesn’t  _ say _ that, but that’s what it would  _ mean _ ,” Meg sneers. “Shit about ‘incompatible genetic indicators’. And forget being norm, you’re fucked.”

“C’mon, Cas can’t -”

Meg give him a withering look to rival Sam’s bitchface.

“Angel has a blind spot a mile wide when it comes to his brothers. Or, at least, he doesn’t think he has a right to stand up to Michael. It’s pathetic, and hopeless, and I’ve been dealing with it for years.”

Dean considers her, then looks back out at Cas, standing next to Michael and nodding along obediently. 

“Huh.”

Dean is reviewing his list-of-reasons-not-to-punch-Michael-Novak-in-the-face when an unexpected angel appears, in the form of a slender woman with red hair dressed in business casual. Anna speaks quietly to the nearest security guard, who nods and moves the barrier aside to let Dean slip past.

Anna wraps her arms around Dean’s shoulders and pulls him into a tight hug. Dean smiles.

“Anna! What’re you doing here?”

“Look who decided to show up,” Anna teases as she releases the hug. “I’m a consultant for the guy covering Michael’s campaign. They won’t let me write anything because it’s a conflict of interest, but they don’t have any shame in using my connections to get close to the Novaks. How’re you holding up?”

“Great. Fantastic. Do you have any insight on how this douchebag got elected?” Dean waves towards Michael, up on stage, with his perfect smile, surrounded by a crowd of adoring reporters. Anna sighs and twists the end of a section of hair around her finger.

“Personality aside, he really is an excellent politician. He’s extraordinarily efficient and effective at getting policy made, he has an innate understanding of domestic and foreign affairs, he’s diplomatic, and well informed -”

“And a complete bastard who treats his own brother like a shitty toy his dad bought him,” Dean finishes. Anna’s eyes betray her own sadness and frustration about the situation.

“No one else sees it that way. Michael was made to be a leader, and Castiel was made to help him. They’re just playing their roles. Dean, you of all people should understand that.”

Dean crosses his arms and shakes his head.

“Cas isn’t a fucking  _ toy _ ,” he insists. Anna places a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I know.”

“Yeah,  Stacey here is the real master of realistic portrayals of the illustrious Novak family,” Meg sneers, throwing an arm around Anna’s shoulders. Anna sighs again and wiggles away from the scowling, dark-haired woman.

“Meg, honestly, you can’t still blame me for -”

“I can blame anyone I like for whatever I want,” Meg cuts her off before she can elaborate on what exactly it is Meg blames her for. Meg slinks away. “I think I saw a mini-bar in Michael’s greenroom. Don’t leave without me, pretty boy.”

Anna looks at him.

“Pretty boy?”

“Also babyface. Stacey?”

“Oh god, only Meg. Short for Anastasia, the wicked stepsister from Cinderella. The one with the red hair.”

“Nice. You got any clues to the whole Clarence thing?”

“It has to do with the angel bit,” Anna muses.

“Yeah, what’s Meg’s deal with that anyway?” Dean asks, hoping for any insight that might make his insufferable co-worker a little more sufferable. “And why does she hate you so much?” Anna glances in the direction where Meg disappeared and shakes her head mournfully.

“I don’t think she’s comfortable with me talking about it, and despite what she might say about me, I’m not a complete bitch. But -” Anna gathers her thoughts, “I think I can tell you that Meg has not had an easy life. You know she’s norm, and she’s been involved with the Novak family for a long time. You’ve met Michael now, seen what he’s like. Trust me when I say the rest of the brothers are the same or worse.”

Dean tries to imagine what dealing with three other Michaels might be like, and he does, in fact, feel a twinge of sympathy for Meg.

“Yeah, well, I guess I can see how she can see Cas as kind of an angel,” Dean admits, scrubbing an embarrassed hand through his hair. “I mean, he saved my sorry ass, right?”

Anna smiles softly at him.

“I told you you deserved a second chance. This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but if you and Castiel are both happy, who am I to argue.” She looks him over appraisingly. “But honestly, Dean, how are you holding up? I saw Lisa -”

Dean holds up a hand to stop her.

“Can we please… not. I’m fine. Really.” Dean glances towards the stage. Cas is listening to Michael, doing the variation of his squinty-head-tilt thing that Dean recognizes as him concentrating. The corners of Dean’s mouth twitch. “Cas is great.”

Anna’s gaze flicks between Dean and her brother.

“I’m glad you two found each other.”

Dean crosses his arms again, and shifts his weight uncomfortably.

“Geez, you make it sound like we’re engaged or something.”

Anna laughs.

“If that were the case, I would be giving you the ‘if you dare hurt my brother’ speech. Although,” Anna narrows her eyes at him, “If you ever dare do anything to hurt my brother, they will never find your body.”

“So, you have good body disposal ideas, then? I mean, Meg has got the hitmen covered, apparently, but she didn’t say anything about the coverup.”

Anna laughs again, loud and bright and full, and Dean grins at the sound.

“God, Anna, I really missed you. I thought -” he looks down, not wanting to voice how much he believed his friend hated him after what he did. Anna places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“I’m your friend, Dean, and I hope I always will be,” she assures him. Dean shrugs, uncomfortable, and they turn their attention back to the press conference.

When the event finally winds down, Anna wraps her arms around Castiel the same way she did with Dean. Castiel keeps his face stoic, and his demeanor professional, but still clings to his sister with a devoted desperation he can’t hide. Dean is a little surprised at the polite charm Michael levels at Anna, and figures that he knows better than to directly offend a not insignificant member of the press. 

Michael apologizes to Dean about the “accidental” parking mishap in a way that makes him grit his teeth. In the end, Michael whisks off with a last round of derision to everyone except Anna, Anna gathers up Castiel with a promise to take her brother home, and Dean is left staring at a disgruntled Meg.

“Well, that was fun,” Meg intones with impressive amounts of sarcasm. 

“You really weren’t kidding about how fucked up these people are,” Dean admits. Meg sneers at him.

“I’m actually not stupid, asshat. I do know what I’m talking about.”

“I never said you were.” Because Meg is anything but stupid, regardless of her steady stream of creative vulgarity, and Dean will be the first one to admit it.

Meg insists he take her back to the office, and Dean finally heads home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael is a dick. I may, at some point in the future, write a short something about what went down with Meg, Lucifer, Cas, and Anna. Meg has not had a very happy life.


	9. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean is totally not dating his boss.

Dean enters his apartment to find Jessica Moore sitting on his couch and laughing. Sam enters the room from the kitchen with a goofy grin on his face, and he flushes a little when he sees Dean still standing the in doorway.

“Uh - hey, Dean,” Sam greets him, and Jess twists around in her seat to see him. The blush on her face matches Sam’s.

“Hey, Dean,” she repeats.

“So, didn’t need a ride home today, huh?” Dean grins at them. Their blushes darken.

“Well, Jess was at the clinic, she’s a volunteer, you know, and she offered to give me a ride home,” Sam explains, far more casually than strictly necessary. 

“Uh huh.” Dean nods along, wide eyed with innocent belief.

“Shut up, jerk,” Sam mumbles, and Jess laughs.

“It’s good to see you again, Dean,” Jess calls.

“Only pick up the cute ones, right?” he teases, and Jess rolls her eyes. Sam hands Jess a bottle of water he had grabbed from the kitchen and takes a seat on the far end of the couch. Dean glares at him and drops into one of the wooden chairs next to the dining table with a heavy sigh.

“Good day?” Sam quips.

“If either one of you vote for that pile of crap Michael Novak, I’m disowning you,” Dean vows. “Yeah, you too, Jess.”

“Oh, that’s right, you work for Castiel Novak!” Jess scoots up to the edge of her seat. “I heard about the press conference on the radio this morning. How did it go?”

“What press conference?” Sam sits up too.

“Michael’s endorsement of his little brother,” Dean smirks. He’s proud of pulling that one off. Then he slumps. “No, really, he sprung it on us out of the blue this morning. Probably trying to discredit Cas, get him to give up on the campaign. Fortunately, I am very good at my job.”

“Is Michael really that bad?” Jess asks, looking a little disappointed.

“Scum of the earth,” Dean confirms. Sam looks suspiciously guilty. Dean narrows his eyes at his brother. Sam squirms.

“I might have voted for him,” Sam admits, not quite meeting Dean’s eyes, “for Senate, back in California.”

Dean stares at him for a silent, drawn-out moment, focused more on the California part of Sam’s statement than the voting issue. Apparently, at least some of Sam’s lost years were spent on the West coast. Dean realizes that Sam and Jess are both giving him weird looks and he shakes himself.

“Not your fault, Sammy. He’s a pro. As in really, really good at his job. It’s just as a person that he’s a miserable dump heap.”

“Guess you don’t have to be a good person to be a good politician,” Sam says sagely.

“Being a good person is actually a disadvantage,” Dean adds, thinking of Cas.

“Politics suck. I don’t know how you put up with that crap,” Jess comments sourly. 

Dean shrugs.

“‘S not all bad. Not everyone’s a complete ass.”

“Like Cas?” Sam asks slyly. Dean’s face dissolves into a soft smile.

“Yeah, like Cas.”

Sam and Jess share a look. There’s a moment of peaceful, comfortable silence, then Jess sighs and stands.

“Well, guys, I’ve got to get going. I need to walk my dog before it gets too late,” she announces, looking around for her purse, which was abandoned on the floor near the couch.

“You have a dog?” Sam asks, his face eager and delighted. Jess regards him for a long moment before replying.

“Yup. Chihuahua. Real nervous, yappy thing. Pees everywhere.”

Sam tries to keep the smile pasted on his face. Jess laughs, loud and unapologetic.

“She’s golden retriever, you oaf. You really think I’m a Chihuahua kind of person?”

Sam chuckles sheepishly while Dean guffaws. 

“Yeah, that’s - uh - that’s great,” Sam says. Jess shakes her head and heads for the door. Sam bounds over to open it for her, as awkward as he is chivalrous. 

“Take care of yourselves, both of you,” she orders on her way out the door.

“See ya, Jess,” Dean waves. He waits until the door is closed before turning a shark-like grin on Sam. “So… you and Jess, huh.”

Sam sighs, running a hand through his shaggy hair and flopping back down on the couch dramatically.

“No, actually. It’s not like that.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Why not? You like her, she likes you, what’s the deal?”

Sam looks at him like he’s speaking another language.

“Dean. My girlfriend of two years just left me. Literally. Dying on a doorstep. I’m in fucking  _ rehab _ . Now is not exactly the best time to get involved with someone.”

Dean drops his head, understanding his brother is right.

“Guess it’ll take both of us a little while to get back in the dating game,” he acquiesces. “God, what a pair of losers we make, huh? What would Dad say?”

Sam’s jaw clenches, and Dean recognizes his mistake in bringing up their father. 

“Dad’s dead,” Sam states, his voice flat.

“Yeah, I know. I buried him,” Dean snaps back, unable to keep the bitter edge out of his voice.

“So why’re you still trying to suck up to him?” Sam bursts out. 

“Excuse me?” Dean’s blood is starting to boil.

“Law school? Really? Dean,  _ you like your job _ . A lot. And you’re really good at it. Why the hell are you even thinking about going to law school?” Sam’s pent up frustration comes pouring out.

“It’s my choice, Sammy. Like you’re so much better than me, trying to fry your brain with drugs just to prove Dad wrong. How’s that working out for you?”

A muscle in Sam’s jaw twitches and Dean’s fists clench. He stands abruptly. 

“I’m going to bed,” Dean announces. Sam looks away as he storms to his bedroom and slams the door shut between them.

Dean is kept awake for a long time by the sounds of Sam tossing and turning and occasionally whimpering in pain or fear. He remembers a time when he would cradle his baby brother in his arms after a particularly bad nightmare, telling him silly, nonsense ghost stories until Sam drifted back into sleep with a smile on his lips. He wishes things could be that easy again.

Dean dreams dark dreams, of a man with a cruel smile leading a broken Castiel chained in handcuffs, of a dark-haired woman with sly eyes tipping a cup filled with poison into Sam’s open mouth, of his father and the words failure and disappointment, and a hand raised in anger. He wakes after a few hours in a cold sweat to the smell of coffee.

It’s long before dawn, still night by most definitions, but there is no more sleep to be had. Dean trudges out of the bedroom. Sam is huddled in a corner of the couch, clutching a cup of coffee and flipping through a book. He doesn’t look up when Dean shuffles in, but waves a hand towards the kitchen.

“There’s coffee.”

“Thanks,” Dean grunts, and retrieves his own mug. He joins Sam on the couch, trying to catch a glimpse of what Sam is reading. Sam lifts the book so he can see the cover - it’s Dean’s LSAT study guide.

“I shouldn’t judge when I don’t know shit about what your life’s been like the past few years,” Sam explains, a subtle apology.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “Same.”

They both take uncomfortable sips of coffee.

“Hey, you wanna piss off Jo?” Dean offers after a beat, with a sly grin. Sam’s face lights up.

“God fucking damnit, Dean Winchester, you fucking piece of shit, you better have a goddamned good reason for waking me up at the fucking ass-crack of dawn,” Jo’s voice blasts over the phone on the second call. Dean chuckles darkly and Sam can’t wipe the grin off his face.

“Good morning, Jo,” Sam says into the speakerphone. There is a long pause, and Dean wonders if maybe Jo fell back to sleep.

“Sam?” Jo’s voice is hoarse and hollow, like she had just seen a ghost.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

There is another long pause.

“Jesus Christ, Sam Winchester, I know your brother’s a fucking idiot, but you should fucking know better than to wake me up at fucking three-o’clock in the fucking morning.” Jo’s impressively explicit shouting is back.

“Wow, Jo, doing enough fucking over there in the big apple?” Dean teases.

“Fuck you,” Jo replies. “So, Sam’s back, I guess.”

“Obviously,” Dean says.

“You tell Mom and Bobby?”

The silence says everything. Jo snorts.

“Chickenshit,” she accuses. Again, Dean can’t argue with her assessment. Sam doesn’t look any more eager to confront their surrogate parents.

Jo yawns loudly and demands that if they’re going to wake her up so early, they sure as hell better make it worth her while. So Sam tell stories about his first couple of years in California, after running away from Dad, before Ruby, and Dean talks about Cas. Jo interrupts frequently with colorful comments about both of them. Sam finally bullies Jo into giving up some details about her life in New York and all the Norm rights activist groups she’s involved in. Dean heads her off before she can dissolve into one of her rants and turns the conversation away from the sensitive topics of politics and mods. Jo eventually mutters something about getting out of bed to find coffee and ends the conversation with the opinion that both Winchesters need to grow some balls and call Ellen and Bobby.

“So I guess Jo’s doing well,” Sam reflects with a fond smile when the call cuts off abruptly. 

“That girl is terrifying,” Dean shivers. “I don’t know if it makes it better or worse to know that she doesn’t have any personality mods.”

“She doesn’t need the mods, she’s got Ellen’s genes,” Sam laughs, “that’s terrifying enough.”

Dean snorts his agreement, then grabs both their mugs from their places abandoned on the table, and heads to the kitchen to refresh their coffee. The first glow of early morning sunshine is starting to lighten the grey Chicago sky outside.

Sam picks up the LSAT book abandoned on the coffee table and Dean heads to the bathroom to get ready for work.

~~

“I don’t understand,” Cas says, frowning at the computer screen where a video of his interview with the Channel Six Morning News Team is playing. “Was she trying to mock me?”

“It was a joke,” Dean explains. “She’s making a Star Wars reference.”

Castiel’s frown deepens. Dean pauses the video and turns to stare at his boss.

“Dude. Have you never seen Star Wars?” 

“I’ve heard of it. It’s practically archaic, and having knowledge about film history doesn’t really contribute to my professional development.”

“It’s  _ Star Wars _ ! It’s a classic! Not everything has to be about professional development!” Dean tries not to sound too hysterical. Meg is already peering over her desk at them and smirking. 

“How about  _ Lord of the Rings _ ?  _ Fight Club _ ?  _ The Princess Bride _ ?” Castiel shakes his head after each suggestion.

“You’re chasing your own tail, here, Winchester,” Meg calls. “I don’t think Clarence has sat in front of a television or movie screen for entertainment, well, probably ever.”

Dean shakes his head and rubs his temple. “Ok, this is a problem.”

“I don’t see how being versed in popular entertainment would be beneficial in a political setting,” Castiel argues.

“You’ve got to be able to relate to people,” Dean explains. “You can’t go around glaring when people make pop culture references you don’t understand. People have to like you to want to vote for you. And no, that’s not logical, but it’s the way society works.”

“What do you suggest, then?” Cas grudgingly agrees.

“Come over on Saturday, I’ve got a box set of all the Star Wars movies. We’ll start simple.”

Meg snickers while Castiel nods. Dean ignores her in favor of grinning at the happy anticipation of the weekend now brewing in his chest.

The anticipation morphs into unsettling anxious butterflies on Saturday morning. 

“Don’t you have class?” Sam yawns as Dean spontaneously starts vacuuming the living room before breakfast.

“I can skip, no big deal,” Dean shrugs, pushing the couch out of the way so he can chase a few stubborn dust bunnies under it. Sam wrinkles his nose.

“So you can  _ vacuum _ ?” 

“Cas’ coming over later, I told you.”

“You’re cleaning for Cas. You trying to impress him or something?”

“He’s my boss,” Dean insists, not thinking too hard about exactly why he suddenly feels the need to have a spotless apartment for Castiel’s visit, or about the butterflies making his stomach churn to the point of not even wanting to eat breakfast.

The butterflies grow to full-fledged birds by the time Cas actually arrives.

“Hey,” Dean greets him, hoping the birds aren’t making his voice sound shaky. Castiel is wearing a sweater vest. Dean represses the word ‘cute’ to describe it.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says.

“Hi Castiel,” Sam waves from his seat in the kitchen, where he’s inexplicably browsing through Dean’s abandoned LSAT book again.

“So, uh,” Dean stammers, “Star Wars?”

“Yes, that is why I am here,” Castiel squints at him.

“Right. Yeah.”

Dean waves Cas to sit on the couch and fumbles with the old DVD player. They make it through three Star Wars movies, which Castiel watches with an academic fascination that Dean finds wholly inappropriate. 

“Can’t you just enjoy the movie without analyzing it to death?” Dean complains as Cas talks excitedly over the dialogue.

“I am enjoying it,” Cas insists, and Dean rolls his eyes. Sam rolls his eyes as well, but for different reasons.

“So, Episode 1 next week?” Dean offers when he walks Cas to the door.

“That sounds acceptable,” Cas agrees, not quite smiling but looking more relaxed than Dean has ever seen him.

Their pop-culture education nights become a weekly ritual. They watch movies, TV shows, sometimes sit around and listen to music. Castiel likes to comment on everything, and they occasionally get so sidetracked in conversation that they miss the movie entirely and have to start over. Dean swears up and down that  _ Zoolander _ got a real, genuine laugh out of Cas. Cas actually does laugh when Dean cringes through  _ The Shining _ . Sam lurks in the background like a gigantic third wheel.

“Hey, have you guys seen that new movie that came out last week? The space pirates one?” Dean asks Bobby over the phone one morning. He hears something crash in the kitchen, meaning that Sam is probably attempting to cook.

“It was ok. Ellen hated it. Jo loved it. Typical,” Bobby answers. 

“D’you think Cas would like it?” Dean questions as he buttons up his shirt.

“Cas? Your boss?” Bobby sounds surprised. 

Dean shrugs, even though Bobby can’t see him, “Yeah.”

Bobby is quiet for a long moment.

“He like that baseball game?” 

Dean laughs, remembering Cas’ furious squinting, trying to suss out the appeal America’s national pastime. “He hated it.”

“He’s gonna hate the movie,” Bobby proclaims. 

The loud smash of something hitting the floor in the kitchen prevents Dean from replying. 

“What’s that?” Bobby sounds suspicious.

“Um. Neighbor’s cat,” Dean lies quickly. “Thanks, Bobby, gotta go. Give Ellen a kiss for me.”

Dean hangs up, squirming in guilt about failing to tell the small detail of his large, drug addict brother sharing his apartment.  

 

In the kitchen, Sam directs a colorful flood of swearing at a pan on the stove. Dean peers around him and snorts at the soggy, yellowish lumps that are trying so hard to be scrambled eggs. 

“It’s not funny, Dean,” Sam growls, aggressively shaking salt over the lumps.

“I’m not laughing, Sammy,” Dean protests scratchily, his throat dry with sleep. He hurriedly empties the remainder of the coffee pot into a cup and lets the hot liquid drip soothingly down his throat.

“Hey, I was gonna drink that, jerk!”

Dean winks and flips up his middle finger as he takes another long gulp from his mug. Sam rolls his eyes and transfers his dubious eggs to a plate. Sam seems like he’s having one of his good days, despite whatever atrocities he’s inflicting on those poor eggs. The good days are getting more and more frequent after a little more than a month in rehab, and Dean is glowingly proud, and desperately relieved. Things seem to be going pretty well, in general. 

“You’re really going to eat that?”

“It’s still edible,” Sam insists, poking a rubbery lump with his fork, “and it’s not even burnt or anything.”

Dean shakes his head.

“How the hell did you manage to keep yourself alive on your own,” he wonders. Sam’s bitchface is on in full force.

“I am an adult, I can feed myself,” he sneers, proving his point by shoving a forkful of eggs past his lips. He can’t stop his nose from wrinkling as he chews and swallows. “I ate out a lot at first, then mostly Ruby cooked,” he admits, frowning at the eggs. Dean doesn’t comment.

Instead, he pulls eggs, cheese, ham, and some leftover mushrooms and peppers from another one of Sam’s cooking experiments out of the fridge. Sam perks up.

“What’re you making?”

“I’m making  _ myself _ an omelette,” Dean says, and Sam deflates. He scowls, and resignedly dumps his sad eggs into the trash and pulls cereal from the cabinet instead. “So. That space pirates movie?” Dean asks for a second opinion as he whisks eggs. “What d’ya think?”

“You’re taking Cas to a movie?” Sam lifts his eyebrows and pours milk into his cereal.

“Pop-culture,” Dean defends. “We’re doing pretty good on the classics, but we gotta stay current, too.”

Sam shovels cereal into his mouth and regards Dean solemnly. 

“What was your excuse for taking him to dinner last week?”

“Some kid asked him what his favorite food was and he  _ didn’t know _ ! Who the hell doesn’t know that their favorite food is?”

“What, so you’re just going to keep taking him out to fancy restaurants until he tries every food in existence and picks his favorite?”

“Not every food in existence. I’m sure as hell not letting him eat whatever that vegan rabbit-food garbage you brought home was. And that restaurant wasn’t even that fancy.”

“Uh-huh. And the Cubs game?”

Dean rolls his eyes and his eggs sizzle in the pan.

“Dude grew up in Chicago and his douchey brothers never took him to a baseball game. How messed up is that?”

Sam puts down his spoon and stares at Dean. Dean sprinkles cheese over his eggs.

“Dean. How long are you going to keep denying that you’re practically dating your boss?”

“Aw, c’mon you know it’s not like that,” Dean chuckles.

“There’s the denial part of denying it,” Sam points out, picking back up with his cereal.

Dean pokes at his omelette with a spatula and considers. Ok, the long lunches, and the dinners, and the weekend trips to Chicago landmarks that Cas has somehow never seen, and the pop culture education campaign, when you add them all up they do look kind of… intimate.

“Ok, so  _ maybe _ if you didn’t know us it  _ might _ look a  _ little _ like dating,” Dean has to admit, “But I’m not gay, so it’s not like that.”

“And if you were gay?” Sam looks expectantly at his brother. Dean concentrates on his omelette. Sam amends, “or, you know, what if Cas was a girl?”

Dean wrinkles his nose at that thought. He can’t imagine Cas as a girl, there’s just something  _ wrong _ about that picture. But if he  _ was _ . If he was, then Dean would be allowed to say that Castiel had the bluest and most beautiful eyes he has ever seen. The ghost of a forgotten dream tickled the back of his mind. Dean shakes his head.

“Well, I’m not gay, and Cas isn’t a girl, and it’s not like that, ok?” Dean snaps, suddenly defensive. Sam gives him a withering look.

“Try to remember what happened the last time you dated your boss,” Sam warns, and Dean glares around a mouthful of omelette. 

“Cas is gonna hate that movie,” Sam calls out for good measure as Dean leaves the apartment.

Dean tries to put the conversation out of his mind, so of course the first thing out of his mouth when he sees Castiel at the office is, “So Sam thinks we’re dating.” He laughs, trying to make sure that Cas knows it’s a joke. 

Dean should never rely on Cas knowing when something is a joke. Castiel stiffens and his head starts to tilt. It’s the confused tilt, not the concentrating one or the irritated one.

“It’s a joke, he was joking,” Dean clarifies, hoping he sounds convincing since he knows for sure that Sam was not joking.

“Oh man, I’ve got to buy him a fruit basket,” Meg mutters as she sidesteps around Dean with a large file in her arms. Castiel turns his head tilt on her. 

“What are you referring to?” Castiel demands to know. Meg dumps the file on his desk.

“C’mon,  _ you _ ,” Meg points an accusing finger in Dean’s face, “have been oggling Hottie McHotterson since day one, and  _ you _ ,” Meg’s finger turns to Castiel, then she pauses and glares at him, “you are a whole other mess of issues that I’m not even going to start in on now. But yeah, totally dating and I’m so fucking relieved I’m not the only one who sees it.” 

“I don’t understand,” Castiel puzzles, “Dean and I are in no way romantically involved.”

“Yeah, I’m not gay,” Dean adds.

Meg rolls her eyes and flounces out of the room with a haughty flick of her hair. 

“I’m not gay. It’s not in my stats,” Dean reiterates to Cas. Castiel frowns at him, opening the file Meg left for him and pulling out a stack of papers.

“Yes, I know.” His hands still as he stares at Dean. “I didn’t realize that point was so important to you.”

Dean’s stomach drops at the hurt hidden in Castiel’s eyes. He rushes forward and places a reassuring hand on Cas’s shoulder.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” Dean says hurriedly. “I don’t have a problem with being gay, I mean, you can’t do anything about your specs, not that it would be a problem if you could, I mean, it’s perfectly valid if you want to be gay, and I’m gonna shut up now because I can see the hole I’m in getting deeper and deeper.”

“Yes, I think that would be best,” Castiel grunts, frowning at the flustered man in front of him. They stare at each other for a beat. Dean clears his throat.

“So, uh, you interested in seeing a movie about space pirates? Me and Sam saw it last week, and it wasn’t too bad. There’s already a ton of memes about it, though, so I figured…”

“That sounds intriguing. I’d be happy to watch it if you think it would be beneficial,” Castiel nods. Dean’s face twitches into a hesitant smile.

“Yeah? You wanna go after work this Friday? We can pick up some dinner and catch a late show.”

Castiel nods again in assent. He doesn’t smile, but Dean sees it in the way his eyes soften. Dean grins and nods back.

Meg peeks around the door.

“Oh my god, dating,” she groans to herself.

Meg practically sprints out the door exactly as the clock hits 5:00, giving Castiel a sloppy, lipstick smudged kiss on the cheek and patting Dean’s head condescendingly on her way out. Castiel ignores her and Dean scowls, and the two of them are left alone in the office. 

A glance down the short hallway shows him a view of Castiel through his open office door, glaring at his computer screen with frustrated scowl while tapping at his keyboard with one inefficient finger. Cas and technology do not get along. In a fit of inspiration, Dean slips out of the office and heads the diner on the next block. It’s crowded with the after work crowd and Dean ends up waiting nearly half an hour for his to-go order of burgers and fries and two slices of fresh baked pie.

Cas does not notice when Dean leaves, or when he returns. He’s still scowling at the numbers on his computer screen when Dean taps on his office door and holds up the bag of takeout. 

“Ready for a break?” Dean grins, waving the bag to waft the scent of grease and pastry across the room.

“Dean, I’m working,” Castiel snaps, not bothering to look up. 

Dean flinches a little at the rebuff, but steels himself.

“It’s almost 6 o’clock, man. I’m pretty sure you’ve been here for about ten hours, and did you even eat lunch? You’ve gotta take a break at some point,” Dean presses.

Castiel looks up then, his eyes narrowed into his usual squinty glare.

“You have to eat eventually,” Dean points out. “Why not now?”

Castiel sighs, his expression softening a little.

“Let me finish up this worksheet and I’ll join you in the conference room,” he surrenders, turning back to his numbers.

Dean smiles at the back of his tousled head and carries the food into the conference room. Castiel fusses with the tax worksheet for another twenty minutes, and the food is more lukewarm than hot when he finally trudges into the conference room. He blinks in surprise at the spread of food laid out on the table.

“Oh. I wasn’t expecting this,” he says, eyes wide. 

“What were you expecting? I’m surprised you couldn’t smell it from halfway down the block,” Dean says, amused.

Castiels sniffs appreciatively.

“I’m sorry, I tend to get a little, ah, focused on my work.”

Dean scoffs and mutters under his breath, “I’ve noticed.”

“This is incredibly thoughtful, Dean, thank you.”

Castiel fixes him with a soft, blue stare and Dean smiles back. They settle themselves to enjoy the food, still pretty damn good even close to room temperature.

“So how go the taxes?” Dean asks lamely. Castiel squints at him.

“They are - tedious. But we’re making progress. How is your brother? Sam?”

“He’s good,” Dean shrugs. “Recovering. Stayed late at the clinic for some group therapy session or something. Pretty sure he’s just trying to hit on the hot nurse who volunteers there.”

“Jessica,” Cas nods, remembering. He finishes his burger and pokes at his pie, wrinkling his nose when he takes a bite. Dean shakes his head.

“I swear, someday I’m going to get you to like pie, even if I have to learn to bake every kind of pie ever invented,” Dean promises, swapping Cas’ unwanted pie for his empty plate. Castiel just rolls his eyes and watches Dean devour the pastry.

The overall pleasant day turns sour when a fuming Sam climbs into the car, his good mood from this morning disappeared entirely. Dean side eyes him, knowing from experience not to poke at his brother’s thoughts and emotions when he’s this prickly. If Sam wants to talk, he’ll do it on his own terms. As it is, the floppy-haired giant just stares moodily out of the window.

“175,” Sam says out of nowhere. Dean frowns at him.

“Number of cans of Spam you ate last year,” Dean offers in response. Sam snorts derisively.

“My shrink saw your LSAT book in my bag. He made me take a practice test. I got a 175,” Sam explains, voice dark and gloomy. Dean resists the urge to take his eyes of the road and stare at his brother.

“Sammy, that’s amazing! You kicked that test’s ass!”

Sam’s head hits the glass of the window and he groans mournfully.

“And that’s… bad?” Dean questions.

“It’s exactly what my stats say I should be,” Sam snarls. Dean grunts in response, knowing anything he says will just upset him further. “Critical reasoning, comprehension, comparative logic, it’s such bullshit,” Sam continues.

“You’re upset because you’re smart and good at shit?” Dean holds up a hand when Sam scowls fiercely at him. “I just want to make sure I know what exactly what we’re upset about here.”

“I’m upset because they want to turn me into a product of the system all over again,” he says, “it’s such shit, just like Dad. I’m not a slave to my genetics, I don’t have to be what they tell me to be just because my parents happened to pick certain stats for me, without my consent, before I was born.”

Dean’s heard this argument before. He heard it the first time Sam read his stats sheet as a kid, horrified when Dad proudly explained the mods that would turn Sam into an exemplary lawyer. He heard it when Dad pointed to Shelley Brown and told 15-year-old Sam that she was the girl he should ask to the prom, her stats were so compatible with his it would be a sure thing. He heard it when Sam left them four years ago, screaming and swearing at their disappointed and disgusted father before disappearing into the night. He knows that Sam has spent the past four years trying his best to prove that he is anything but the son his father created.

He knows that Sam is failing. That even pumping himself full of drugs couldn’t change the aspects of his appearance and personality chosen for him before birth. That he’s falling for the perfect mod girl with the perfectly compatible stats. That he’s as smart and capable as his stats say he should be, and now with the added proof that yes, he would make the perfect lawyer. Exactly as Dad wanted. Succeeding exactly as much as Dean is failing.

It’s been the same their whole lives and Dean’s over it, he really is. The fact that Sam wants to fail, but succeeds anyway while Dean wants to succeed, but always fails is just an unshakable truth. Dean scored 169 on his practice LSAT. A thought occurs to him.

“Why were you carrying my LSAT book around anyway?”

Sam flushes beet red. “I was bored,” he mumbles.

“And you thought studying for the LSATs would be good entertainment?”

Sam’s eyes are haunted and his voice broken.

“You know, it’s not just that I’m good at it. I  _ enjoy _ it. I think it’s  _ interesting _ .” He spits the words out like poison.

Dean is quiet as he pulls the car into his parking space.

“Sammy, I think it’s ok to be the person you are, even if that person is a little bit influenced by your parents.” Dean lets out an amused little huff. “Even norms blame their parents for shit.”

Sam gives Dean a betrayed look and slams the door as he storms into the apartment. Dean sighs and slumps forward. He wishes he knew how to make Sam feel better. Another way he’s a failure: as a brother.

Sam’s bad mood stubbornly persists the next few days. Dean even asks Jess about it, and she advises him to let the professionals deal with Sam’s issues.

“It’s not your job to fix him, Dean,” Jess says firmly. “Support him, yes. Be there for him when he needs you. But it’s up to him to work through his own crap. If you try and take that on it’ll just break you, too.”

Her voice is heavy with experience. They don’t talk about Jess’s connection to the rehab center and Jess doesn’t offer the information. Sam suspects that one of her family members was a patient. Dean is pretty sure it was her mother.

The apartment is dark and stormy when they are both in it, and Dean is grateful when Friday rolls around and he has an excuse to stay out. Italian is up next on their world culinary tour to find Cas’s favorite food. So far, Castiel adores burgers, enjoyed the (ugh) escargot at the French restaurant, complained that the curry at the Indian restaurant was too spicy, although he loved the sticky sweet gulab jamun, and was blasphemously indifferent towards the Chicago style deep-dish pizza. Dean wants to take him to the awesome Mexican restaurant Jess recommended a few weeks ago, he thinks Cas will like the enchiladas.

Meg recommended the Italian place, so Castiel insisted they try it. She actually made them a reservation and waved and smirked suspiciously as Castiel wrapped himself in his trenchcoat and walked out the door, followed by Dean, who eyed Meg cautiously until she was out of sight.

Dean understands the reason for Meg’s smug smirk when he pulls the Impala up in front of the restaurant and the valet runs around to open his door while another offers a hand to help Castiel out of the passenger’s seat. Dean’s glad he’s still dressed up for work and hopes that Cas’s tattered old trenchcoat isn’t breaking some kind of restaurant dress code. He also sends up a prayer of thanks that his paycheck was deposited today.

(“You know, Angel’s more likely to put out if you take him someplace fancy,” Meg had advised earlier that week. “He loves shit like that.”

“Fuck off, Meg,” had been Dean’s response.) 

Castiel’s face does, in fact, look intrigued and mildly delighted as he examines the posh exterior of the restaurant. After seeing that expression, there’s no way that Dean can go through with his gut reaction of asking Cas if he wanted to try someplace else that might not break his bank account quite so much. Dean sighs resignedly and tells the valet that he’d rather park the car himself and after a doubtful looks, receives instructions on where to look for street parking. Dean ends up having to park several blocks away, but the walk back is worth not letting anyone else behind the wheel of his baby.

There’s a frickin’ doorman who holds open the door for Dean to enter the restaurant. The interior is dimly lit, candles flickering on the pristine white tablecloths, the decor simple and classy, the atmosphere quiet and intimate. Dean inspects the tables, but Cas is nowhere to be seen. Dean approaches the pretty young hostess, who smiles at him.

“Welcome to Primavera, how can I help you this evening?” she asks. Dean offers her a Charming Smile. He would stop and flirt if Cas wasn’t already waiting for him somewhere inside.

“I’m meeting up with my friend, he came in earlier. I’m not sure what the reservation’s under, but you’d probably recognize him. About yea high, blue eyes, trenchcoat?”

The hostess grins and nods.

“Of course. Mr. Novak’s right this way.” She waves him forward and Dean resists the urge to fist pump at the fact that she recalled Castiel’s name. They’re definitely doing better on people recognizing Castiel instead of identifying him as ‘that guy in the trenchcoat’. Dean kind of wants to burn that trenchcoat.

The restaurant has a small courtyard in the back, paved in smooth red stone, with a quietly tinkling fountain in one corner, and lined with small trees lit with sparkling fairy lights. It’s warm enough that the glass doors between the courtyard and the restaurant stand open and a light, spring-scented breeze floats through. Castiel is seated at an isolated table overlooking the outdoor space, frowning down at a bulky menu. Dean’s insides squeeze at the way the flickering candles and soft lights from the trees highlight the shadows of Castiel’s face.

Dean really hopes that Meg has all her affairs in order.

The hostess is pulling out the chair beside Cas, so they can both have a view of the courtyard, and ushering Dean to sit. Castiel’s head pops up, startled, as Dean takes his seat and accepts the menu from the hostess. Castiel blinks at Dean, eyes roving over his face in the dim light. The hostess takes a step back and studies the picture of the two handsome men seated together, a sappy smile plastered over her face.

“Enjoy your evening, sirs,” she says, clasping her hands together and grinning at them. Dean wants to roll his eyes, or snap at her, or run away, but he’s got better manners than that, so he just smiles indulgently at her.

“Thanks,” he tells her and she practically giggles as she returns to her post at the front of the restaurant.

Castiel is frowning down at the menu again when Dean turns back.

“Dean, this restaurant is very expensive,” Cas informs him. Dean flips open his own menu and has to stop himself from literally clutching his chest when he sees the numbers next to the long Italian words describing the dishes. How the hell has Meg ever eaten here to recommend this place? Maybe she has some kind of sugar daddy - or mama - that Dean doesn’t know about. Not that Dean knows anything about Meg’s personal life.

Dean looks back at Cas, who is watching him with wide, worried eyes. Like Dean, he’s still dressed for work, in one of his old navy suits that Dean hasn’t been able to get tailored yet, but he’s ditched the tie and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his wrinkled white dress shirt. His trenchcoat is missing - probably whisked away to be hung up by one of the helpful waiters - but overall he looks like his usual, awkward, endearing, messy self. Dean smiles fondly at him.

“It’s fine, Cas. I’ve never had food like this, hell, I don’t think I can even pronounce anything on the menu, and we’re supposed to be trying new things, right? It’ll be worth it.”

Cas tilts his head thoughtfully. (The “calculating” tilt, the same one he uses when he’s running over numbers in his head for clients.)

“Maybe we can charge it to the office and write it off as a business expense,” he considers.

“Yeah, ok, Mr. ‘I believe in transparency and fiscal responsibility’,” Dean chuckles. “Spending campaign funds on fancy dinners is sure going to convince the voters.”

Castiel scowls.

“I prefer to think of it as being intelligent enough to not allow opportunities to slip by.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re a Novak and politician is your first language.”

Castiel bristles at the mention of the sensitive topic of his family, but Dean lays a soothing hand on top of his.

“Don’t worry about it, Cas,” Dean reassures him. “We’re already here and spending a few bucks doesn’t bother me if I get to spend some time watching you molecularly dissect fancy food.”

“The way that chefs use the molecular composition of various ingredients to create complex flavors is fascinating,” Castiel admits, and glances back down at his menu. “And the ricetta capesante gratinate does sound quite appetizing.”

Dean lifts an eyebrow.

“Dude, do you speak Italian?”

Castiel looks up at him and nods.

“Yes.”

“I thought you spoke French.”

“I do.”

Dean blinks.

“Exactly how many languages do you speak?”

Castiel frowns in concentration.

“Nine.”

If Dean had been drinking something Castiel would be soaked. “You speak nine languages.”

“Each of my brothers speaks at least twelve,” Cas replies, almost apologetically. “Michael is fluent in eighteen.”

Dean sometimes forgets that Castiel is a gen, and his skills were carefully chosen and composed for a singular purpose. Cas just seems so normal most of the time.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean squeaks, trying to see if he can even think of eighteen different languages. He can’t. “Ok. Well. Let’s not let those skills go to waste. Can you explain this menu to me?”

“Of course, Dean.”

They discover that Castiel does, in fact, like scallops and loves gelato. Dean teases him about his sweet tooth. Cas argues that his taste buds and neurochemical makeup are just as engineered as the rest of him, and Dean argues right back that there’s nothing in his genetics that could make him like Italian gelato more than American frozen yogurt.

“It’s about the texture,” Cas explains. “The way my system processes the substances means that my brain responds more positively to the texture of gelato.”

“Ok, so your GE brain tells you that you experience gelato one way, and yogurt another way, and that you respond differently to the different experiences, right? But it doesn’t tell you which experience you like more.”

“A positive response to stimulus is liking something,” Cas frowns. Dean shakes his head and scrunches up his nose.

“Nah. Just ‘cause you ‘respond’ to something doesn’t mean you like it more. I mean, I don’t exactly have a positive response to horror movies, they freak the shit out of me, but I still fucking love them,” Dean counters. Castiel’s frown deepens as he considers this. “Don’t over think it, dude, I just think it’s cute that you like desserts so much.” Dean’s face immediately flushes red at calling Cas ‘cute’, and he’s suddenly grateful for the low lighting. Castiel doesn’t seem to notice, just breaths out an amused puff of air and lets the subject go.

They miss their showing of the movie and have to go to a later time, the sky already dark as they enter the theatre. Dean is grateful that he’s already seen it, since Cas pokes his side every few minutes to ask a seemingly endless stream of questions about the film. Space pirates apparently don’t agree with him. When Dean asks what he thinks about the movie on their late night drive back to Castiel’s flat, he receives a long-winded, rambling rant nitpicking it’s socio-political shortcomings.

“Can’t you just forget about all that and just enjoy the space pirates part?” Dean groans, internally cursing Sam and Bobby for correctly predicting Cas’ reaction. Castiel gives him the ‘you’re probably slightly insane’ head tilt.

Dean parks the car in front of Castiel’s fancy high-rise. Cas turns towards him and looks him in the eye.

“Thank you for a very enjoyable evening,” Cas says, awkwardly formal. But then his face lights up in a rare, honest-to-god, sincere smile. It’s a little shy and unpracticed, which makes sense because Cas’s smiles are as rare as a solar eclipse, and it seems to light up the interior of the car like the sun. Dean’s jaw goes slack at the sight before the warm feeling in his gut spreads to his face and he smiles back.

“No problem, I’m just glad you had fun,” Dean responds, patting Castiel’s once again trenchcoat clad shoulder.

“Shortcomings of modern cinema aside, I very much did,” Cas affirms. “I will see you at the office on Monday?”

“Sure thing,” Dean nods. Castiel nods back, and slides out of the car. He closes the door carefully behind him, having learned very early to treat the Impala with the respect she deserves. He doesn’t look back as he steps up to the door of his building, but Dean watches him until he’s safely inside.

Dean swears that the Impala is levitating off the road as he flies back to his side of the city.

“Late night with Cas?” Sam smirks, looking up from his book when Dean floats into the apartment.

“Shut up, bitch,” Dean growls back, slamming the bedroom door behind him.

Dean’s dreams are full of blue eyes and bright smiles and a warmth like the sun lighting him up from the inside.

He wakes up the next morning and reality smacks him in the face.

“Oh my god, I’m dating my boss.”


	10. Wake-Up Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what sleazy reporter is back to ruin the day?
> 
> At least Dean's not panicking. He's not. Really.

Dean is not panicking. He’s not even a little bit panicking. He doesn’t panic all weekend. There’s nothing to panic about. 

Dean thinks about Castiel’s slow, sweet, shy smile that lights up the room like the sun, and his body tingles from head to toe and his heart throbs against his ribs.

Dean is not panicking.

Sam even pulls himself out of his morose gloom to give Dean weird looks as the he jitters around the apartment all weekend. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Sam eventually snaps when Dean opens and closes his LSAT book on the same page for the fifth time in an hour to get up and take a nervous lap around the apartment.

“What? Nothing,” Dean denies. Sam’s lips press together in disapproval.

“You’ve been circling around the apartment all day like a nervous puppy and it’s starting to freak me out, man.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my apartment and I can do whatever the hell I want in it. No one’s making you stay.”

Sam’s jaw clenches, and he slams his laptop closed, tossing it carelessly onto the coffee table. He stands up to his looming height and glares down at Dean. Wordlessly, he snags his jacket off  of the hook near the door and storms out. Dean watches him go, a headache starting to throb behind his eyes. He closes his eyes and continues not panicking by taking another lap around the apartment.

The afternoon fades to evening and worry about Sam starts to creep into Dean’s not-panic. He calls Jess after dinner when there’s still no sign of Sam. When the sun sinks completely below the horizon and it’s late enough that evening officially becomes night and Sam still hasn’t returned, Dean calls the clinic. Dean is calculating his chances of being able to find a giant moose lost in this city if he goes out to look when Sam finally slinks back through the door. He smells faintly of cigarette smoke and stale beer, and Dean looks him over carefully for any signs of intoxication.

“I’m not drunk or high, stop looking at me like that,” Sam snarls. Dean’s eyebrows furrow.

“What the hell? Where were you?”

“Out.”

“No kidding. Out where?”

“Fuck you, you said get out, so I did. You’re not Dad, you don’t get to demand to know where I go.”

Dean can feel an argument brewing. He takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly.

“I was just worried about you, Sammy. I’m supposed to be looking out for you, and how can I do that when you just disappear like that?”

“I’m a freakin’ adult, I don’t need to be looked out for! And don’t call me Sammy.” 

“The last time you were out on your own you nearly killed yourself, so, yeah, I think having someone looking out for you is a pretty good idea,” Dean grates out between his clenched teeth.

“If I want to kill myself it’s my own damn business,” Sam returns, “just go back to whatever the hell you’re so involved with yourself about and leave me the fuck alone.”

“You know what, screw you,” Dean finally breaks, and leaves Sam alone in the living area.

When Monday morning comes around, Dean is definitely not panicking and absolutely not worrying about Sam. It’s looking like it’s shaping up to be a great week.

It gets better when Meg’s smirk greets him from behind the reception desk, leaning back in Cheryl’s chair, her feet propped up on the desk, using a compact mirror to fix her fresh coat of lipstick.

“So, how was your date on Friday?” she inquires in sing-song.

“You owe me a hundred bucks for dinner,” Dean glowers. Meg immediately swings her feet down and sits up straight, a wicked grin lighting up her face.

“Holy shit, you’re not denying it was a date? Totally worth a hundred bucks.”

Dean’s face goes beet red, and his heartbeat sutters.

“It was  _ not _ a date,” he denies. Meg only grins wider.

“I am the queen. Can I be best man at your wedding?”

“Fuck no.”

“So there is going to be a wedding?”

“No! There’s nothing going on between me and Cas!”

“Uh-huh. Did you watch your angel’s ass all the way to his front door?”

Thank god Dean’s face can’t get any redder than it already is.

“Jesus, Meg, projecting much?”

“Jesus, babyface, denying much? Actually, no, you didn’t even deny that one, you are so gone.”

Dean scrambles for an appropriate comeback. Thankfully the front door swings open to admit a sweaty, lightly panting Castiel fresh from his long walk to work. Dean’s pulse speeds up a few beats and he wonders when it’s going to get too warm for the trenchcoat. He might miss it just a little.

“Heya, Clarence,” Meg greets him in the same sing-song. “Good weekend?”

“Yes, it was adequate,” Castiel replies, stripping off the battered old coat and folding it over his arm as he makes his way back towards his office. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas.” Dean absolutely does not watch Castiel walk past him down the hallway and he is absolutely not panicking. Meg is still grinning smugly at him. Dean offers her his coldest glare. “Screw you, Meg.”

She chuckles as she turns away, leaving Dean to collect himself and remember that he’s at the office and the office means work.

Dean is staring at his computer and not reading the latest round of articles on the candidates for governor. He doesn’t think either of the candidates are too hot on the idea of having Castiel elected as comptroller, and that’s something he needs to deal with sooner rather than later. It doesn’t seem to be happening today, though, because Dean’s brain has apparently short circuited. 

Everything is exactly the same as it has always been. Cheryl rushes in late, apologizing and giving an excuse about her boyfriend’s puppy, and kicks Meg unceremoniously off of her desk. Meg sulks around in her usual terrifying storm of sarcasm and efficiency. Castiel holes himself up in his office, oblivious to everything except his swamp of numbers. It’s only inside Dean’s head that’s different, weighted down with the sudden knowledge that he’s been unwittingly taking his boss out on dates for the past month. And that he’s been enjoying it.

_ Remember what happened the last time you dated your boss _ , Sam’s voice echoes ominously through his head. Dean finds himself pulling up an old, all too familiar article, staring at the words on his computer screen in morbid fascination.

_ Ms. Braeden has declined to comment on the photos or the relationship. The future of her campaign is unclear, as is the status of Mr. Winchester’s employment.  _

A new headline suddenly flashes through Dean’s mind,  _ Employee’s Romantic Favors Bring Down Second Political Career _ . Dean won’t let it happen, he won’t drag Cas down with him. Not that there’s anything going on between them. There’s not.

Dean groans and stands, running fingers through his hair. 

“I’m taking a walk, clear my head,” Dean tells Cheryl, who nods as he walks out the door. Dean’s feet scuff the grey cement under his feet, and traffic whizzes past in a comfortable background hum that helps drown out the noise in Dean’s mind. He walks a short circuit around the downtown blocks that surround Cas’s office. He’s just rounded the corner to head back when a familiar tan trenchcoat falls into place at his side without warning. Dean flinches.

“We’ve got to get you a bell, man,” he says, looking over at Castiel, who says nothing, but silently radiates his amusement.

“Are you alright, Dean?” Castiel’s low voice rumbles over the traffic. “You’ve seemed distracted all day.” Dean is surprised he noticed, fixated as he was on his work. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and slouches, almost pausing in his steps as he regards the man next to him.

“We’re friends, right, Cas?”

Castiel blinks.

“I… I suppose we are,” he says slowly, the words a revelation. Dean can’t stop himself from smiling.

“You say that like it’s a shock.”

“I don’t have many friends, Dean,” Cas says, his eyes studying the cracks in the sidewalk. Dean bumps their shoulders together companionably.

“Well, you’ve got me.” Castiel’s smile is barely perceptible, but Dean still sees it. They walk together in silence. “Do you think it’s ok? What we’ve been doing, going out together and all that,” Dean finally gathers the courage to ask. Castiel’s eyebrows draw together and his head twitches in the beginnings of one of his little tilts.

“Why wouldn’t it be? You’ve been diligent in your responsibility to prepare me for a public role, and even if that were not the case we are, as you said, friends, and it is not unseemly for friends and coworkers to socialize,” he reasons.

“Yeah, I guess. But you’re my boss, too.” Dean swallows and admits, “I just keep thinking about Lisa and what happened.”

Castiel’s expression is pure bafflement.

“You were covertly providing sexual favors to your married employer. How are there any similarities in the situation?”

Dean flushes and shifts his shoulders uncomfortably. 

“No! There’s not. I just worry sometimes. It’s no big deal.”

Castiel stiffens.

“You are concerned that because I am gay, it would be implied that I am using you for sexual favors in the same way as Ms. Braeden, and that our time together might be perceived as some form of compensation?”

No, Dean hadn’t really been thinking that at all, but now he sure is. He acknowledges that he might be panicking a little.

“Uh,” Dean stutters. Castiel steps back and catches his eye with that ever intense, bottomless blue stare.

“I assure you, Dean, that I have never considered you as a romantic partner, and I apologize if my companionship makes you uncomfortable in that respect.” Castiel’s voice is cold. Dean stares back at him as his insides melt into knots, accompanied by an inexplicable burn of hurt.

“Cas, no, that’s not what I’m worried about. Please believe me. I don’t have a problem with you or your sexuality. It’s me. I’m a fuck-up and I tend to drag people down with me. I - I care about you, Cas. I don’t want you to get hurt just for taking pity on a bust like me.”

“I did not take pity on you, and I do not believe that you are a bust. Your concern is appreciated, but unwarranted,” Castiel tells him, firm and sincere. Dean does his best to smile and nod.

“Thanks, Cas.”

They go back to the office together in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Meg says nothing when she watches them come in together, her eyes following Castiel back to his office and Dean back to his uncomfortable moping in front of his computer. Dean is both grateful and suspicious of her silence.

~~

Dean is supposed to be at his LSAT class. He had completely forgotten about the class until Cas showed up at his desk and practically threw him out of the office so he wouldn’t be late. Dean sits in the Impala and looks at the softly glowing windows of the community college building, bright in the fading afternoon light. He knows the LSAT book is lying somewhere in the backseat, its cover half torn off from where Sam had thrown it violently at his head in the midst of an argument. Class started three minutes ago.

Dean picks up his phone and dials.

“What do you want,” Ellen’s voice snaps at the other end of the line.

“Ellen,” Dean sighs, even the sound of her voice calming the anxiety that’s been twisting in his gut the past few days. Ellen hears it instantly.

“What’s wrong with you,” she asks, with her own brand of tough but tender.

“Nothing. Living up to my reputation as a busted loser,” Dean laughs without humor, looking back at the building he’s supposed to be in. 

“Do you need me to drive over there and kick your butt into gear?”

“Probably.”

“How’s your young man doing?

“What?” Dean startles.

“That odd Novak boy you’re trying to turn into a politician,” Ellen says, not noticing or, at least, ignoring Dean’s jumpiness. “Castiel?”

“Cas is doing great,” Dean can’t help but smile. “We’re really starting to make a dent in the polls, and Cas is trying really hard with the people skills.”

“Uh huh,” Ellen says knowingly. “And how about that law school class?”

Dean winces and looks out at the school.

Ellen sniffs at Dean’s silence. “You hate it, don’t you.”

Dean swallows a lump in his throat. There it was, the truth he’s been avoiding.

“Yeah. I hate it.”

“You would rather be reading the newspapers, and taking your Cas to parties, and schmoozing with your reporter pals,” Ellen continues.

“Yeah,” Dean admits. He scrunches up his face in frustration. “God, what’s wrong with me!”

“Nothing is wrong with you,” Ellen snaps, forceful. “Get your head out of your own ass, Dean. Do what makes you happy for once. And if that means being with your Castiel instead of wasting your time hating law school, do that.”

Dean shakes his head, unwilling to admit how right she is. He sighs and assures her he’ll think about it before saying goodbye.

Dean doesn’t go to class.

The next day Sam is missing when Dean comes to pick him up from the clinic.

Dean speeds back to the apartment in a panic, and finds Sam standing on the street in front of the building, arguing with a terrifyingly angry Jess.

“I’m not your fucking girlfriend, you ass, you can’t call me any time you want to come over and coddle you and pick you up from sleezy bars,” Jess is screaming.

“Not like I would date you anyway, you’ve got nothing that wasn’t handed to you on a silver platter, you’re just some full-of-herself mod,” Sam shouts right back. 

“You think you’re so high and mighty, don’t you, pretending to be norm even though you have to fucking poison yourself to do it. I don’t date drug addicts,” Jess snarls, “or assholes.”

“What the hell do you know, Jessica? You think you can judge me? You don’t know me.”

“Why would I want to? I know enough already.”

Dean tentatively bursts in between them, causing both to step back and glare at him menacingly.

“Jesus, you two, what the hell is going on?”

Sam’s face twists into a grimace and he storms away inside, leaving Dean nervously confronting the furious woman in front of him.

“Your brother skipped out on his afternoon counseling and called me to pick him up from some bar,” she explains, her voice tense with carefully controlled anger. “I had to make an excuse to leave work early so I could get him.” 

“Jesus.” Dean runs his fingers through his hair and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Jess. I’m really sorry.”

Jess softens minutely.

“It’s not your fault that your brother’s an ass, Dean.”

“It’s my job to look out for him. I’ve kind of been wrapped up in my own shit the past couple of days, I should be paying more attention to him.”

Jess sighs. “Take care of yourself, Dean. I told you before, don’t try to deal with your problems and Sam’s. I don’t want to have to pick up your sorry ass from some bar, too.”

“Was he -” Dean swallows, unable to ask the question. Jess looks down at her feet soberly.

“I don’t think so, no. He seems clean, just… angry.”

“Yeah. Yeah, ok. Sorry,” Dean says again. Jess frowns at him and shakes her head.

“I’ll see you around, Dean,” she says as she turns away.

Sam doesn’t look at him or speak to him.

Dean curls up in bed, kicking the covers off when he gets too hot, tossing and turning, his mind racing full of dark thoughts. He forces himself to close his eyes and take deep breaths. He imagines Cas is there with him, staring through him and tilting his head just a little to the left while he sorts through the chaos of Dean’s mind with his calm logic. He can even feel the heat of Cas’s body, and imagine the smell of his shampoo, and, Jesus, why the hell does he even know what Cas’ shampoo smells like? The imaginary presence soothes him, Cas a solid, steady anchor beside him.

He wakes up the next morning more confused and distressed than ever. 

One of the state senators invited Castiel to attend a high profile charity event, an invitation Dean eagerly accepted despite Castiel’s continued reservations about his ability to socialize. That was before Dean’s recent revelation.

Usually Dean would prep Cas for an event by sprucing up his suits and fixing his ties and patting him on the back while giving him a pep talk and going over his talking points. Now he hovers anxiously a few feet away, afraid to get too close to the heat of his body, the scent of his hair, the light of his eyes. Meg scowls at him, even as she eagerly runs her hands over Cas. Even Cheryl gives him a strange look when he lets Meg tie Castiel’s tie. Cas watches him with concern over the top of Meg’s head.

“Are you certain this is a good idea, Dean?” he asks warily, thrown by Dean’s change in behavior.

“It’ll be great. You’ve been doing much better in interviews, and it’s important that you connect with the rest of the state government,” Dean assures him with a smile. Castiel nods, but doesn’t look convinced.

“Pretty boy here is just having an identity crisis and being an asshole about it,” Meg rolls her eyes as she smooths her hands down the lapels of Castiel’s suit. “You’re gonna be fine, Clarence, and he’s right, this is a good event for you.”

Cas looks a little bit more reassured at Meg’s words, but he still watches Dean with worry visible in his eyes. Meg grabs Dean’s sleeve before he can follow Cas out the door.

“Man up, Winchester, stop being a dick because you can’t handle your gay crisis. If you let him get hurt I will fucking  _ end  _ you,” she hisses, deadly serious and absolutely terrifying. Dean is pretty sure she won’t actually hit him at the moment, but he ducks away just in case.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean lies, “and Cas’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.”

He dashes away before Meg can get out another scathing word. 

Cas stands too close to him at the event. That’s not unusual, since Cas’s definition of personal space is at most half of any other normal American citizen’s, and Dean has gotten kind of used to it. Tonight it feels suffocating.

“That’s Gregory Rickard, he’s the president of Rickard & Hicks, that investment firm in Springfield. Go talk to him,” Dean murmurs to Castiel, giving him a nudge towards the jovial older man. Rickard is a mod, with a reputation for being chatty and having a good sense of humor, so he’ll be a good warm-up for Cas, with the added bonus of having an opportunity to talk about economics and finance with one of the more prominent money-makers in the state. Castiel squares his shoulders and complies with Dean’s request, doing his best not to stare too intimidatingly. Dean relaxes with the added space between them.

He snags an hors d'oeuvre off a near by tray, and chews reflexively as he studies the rest of the atteeds of the benefit. He recognizes about half of people from his diligent research, and is grateful that no one seems to recognize him. Until he hears a low, smarmy chuckles that chills him straight to the bone. Dean doesn’t want to turn around to confirm the source of that sound, but he can’t help himself.

Fergus Crowley has his shark smile turned on an anxious looking businessman Dean doesn’t recognize. But he does recognize the stout figure with the thinning hair dressed in an impeccable black suit, and he recognizes that hungry glint in his dark eyes. There’s nowhere for Dean to run, and inevitably Crowley’s eyes fall on him. The smile widens.

“Dean Winchester!” Crowley’s voice is a little too loud and a few people turn their heads to stare. Crowley grabs Deans hands and pumps it up and down a few times. “My favorite publicist. You’re the last person I expected to see again.”

Dean assumes that’s a slur, but manages to ignore it.

“Likewise, Mr. Crowley. Still ruining lives?”

Crowley tsks. “Journalism, Dean, journalism. There’s no shame in exposing the naked, ugly truth of the world. People deserve to know.”

“Right. You’re reporting for the benefit of the people,” Dean responds flatly. “There’s nothing in it for you.”

“I can’t help it if people want to pay good money to sully themselves with others’ misfortunes.  _ Your _ story paid for this suit, by the way,” Crowley tells him with a smirk and Dean grits his teeth. “Besides, you don’t seem to be too bad off. The American way, always able to pull yourself up by your bootstraps, eh?”

“You’re not even American,” Dean points out. 

“Dean?”

Dean startles, flinching away from the sudden appearance of Castiel invading his personal space as usual.

“Jesus, what did I say about doing that, Cas?”

“You usually make a humorous quip, often about putting a bell on my person, much as you would a pet cat,” Castiel straightforwardly replies.

“That was a rhetorical question.”

“Oh.”

Dean tentatively glances towards the shorter, dark-clad man across from them, who is now frowning in calculation, his eyes flickering back and forth between Dean and Castiel. Castiel is staring at Crowley with open curiosity, and it’s too late to avoid a meeting now. Dean holds back a sigh.

“Cas, this is Mr. Crowley, from the Haverson Post, Crowley, Castiel Novak,” Dean introduces them. Castiel sticks out his hand to shake. Crowley holds on to it as he studies the man.

“Castiel Novak, Michael Novak’s baby brother? The tax accountant trying to break into state politics?”

“Yes, I am Michael’s brother, and I am running for the position of Illinois state comptroller.” Castiel is, of course, staring right back at Crowley. Dean can pinpoint the exact moment when Cas makes the connection to where he’s heard Crowley’s name before. “You know Dean from his previous employment,” Cas says tactfully, his stare growing cold. 

“And you are Dean’s new employer?” Crowley inquires hopefully, a smile creeping back over his face. Dean’s instincts scream abort. 

“Dean is a consultant for my campaign,” Castiel replies. Crowley’s eyes once again go from Dean to Castiel and back again. His smile broadens further. Dean stiffens, because he’s sure that Crowley  _ knows _ . He doesn’t know how, but, just like Meg, he knows. It must be a sixth sense exclusive to smug bastards.

“Great, well, since Crowley here isn’t a  _ political _ reporter, he can’t be too interested in us - I mean, you,” Dean stumbles over his words as he tries to extricate himself from the uncomfortable situation. Crowley’s smile is turning gleeful. Castiel looks up at Dean and immediately reads the discomfort there.

“Yes, of course,” Cas says immediately. “I would never imagine taking up too much of your time with political discourse, Mr. Crowley. Excuse us.”

Crowley doesn’t seem the least bit bothered as Castiel ushers Dean away, and that makes Dean’s stomach churn. Cas leans in closer.

“Are you alright, Dean? I had no idea that that man would be present,” Cas murmurs into his ear.

“Neither did I. It’s fine, Cas, I can ignore one smarmy bastard for a few hours.”

“You don’t have to stay if you feel uncomfortable,” Castiel offers. Dean smiles at him.

“Thanks, Cas. Don’t worry about it, I’m ok.”

Thankfully, Cas takes him at his word, but still stays close to Dean’s side for the rest of the evening. Dean can feel Crowley’s eyes on them from across the room.

It’s late when the benefit finally ends, but Dean and Castiel head back to the office to review and discuss the event.

“I apologize for subjecting you to that man,” Castiel tells him, “I have no idea how an ingrate like him can still be accepted into polite society.”

“It’s called money, Cas, and you gotta stop talking like you’re Mr. Darcy or something.”

Castiel’s head tilts. “You’ve read Pride and Prejudice?”

Dean’s face heats up. “Uh. Classic literature. College.”

Cas’s lips twitch.

“Regardless, he is an assbutt and you should not have to deal with him. I know you’ve been worrying about what happened with Ms. Braden recently.”

“Assbutt? Seriously?” Castiel’s eyes narrow and Dean grins. “Hey, no, it works. We’ll go with assbutt.”

“I’ll reassure you again, you have nothing to worry about here. Crowley can’t possibly have any fodder for another story on either you or me.”

Dean’s eyes shift away. “Right.”

“Dean?” Castiel takes a concerned step forward. Dean makes the mistake of looking up into his endless blue eyes, and he melts. He can’t keep lying, not to Cas. “Dean, there’s nothing going on that Crowley could write a story about, is there?”

“Cas, I - uh,” Dean rasps, attempting to swallow around his dry throat. Castiel is right there in his space, just like he always is, wearing his trenchcoat, his hair, which had started the evening neatly combed thanks to Meg, now sticking up in little tufts all over. “I kind of want to kiss you.”

Castiel freezes. Not a single muscle twitches, not even his eyes blink. He might have been carved out of ice, if not for the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he sucks in a breath.

“What did you say?”

Dean clenches and unclenches his hands, resisting the desire to reach out and touch Cas, or to run now that the words are hanging in the air between them.

“I like you, Cas, and I don’t think it’s in a platonic, we’re just friends kind of way.” Dean’s confession is quiet and earnest. Castiel still doesn’t move, just stares at him, his throat working in nervous gulps. Dean starts to twitch. “Ok, say something, will ya?”

“Dean.” Castiel moves now, and takes a step back. Dean flinches.

“It’s - sorry. Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up. Just forget it. Please,” Dean begs. Castiel’s head tilts. Dean thinks it is a pitying tilt.

“I don’t - I thought we were friends,” Cas says, and he sounds broken. “Is it - is this what this has all been about?”

“What?” Dean startles. He frowns at Cas, whose stare has, of course, never wavered.

“The - the meals, and movies, and - and everything. This was your attempt at seduction?”

“What? No! No, Cas, it’s not like that at all!”

“I thought we were friends,” Castiel repeats. He cuts himself off and turns away. Dean gets the message.

“We are friends,” Dean insists to the back of Cas’s trenchcoat. Castiel’s shoulders twitch once, and he walks out the door without another word. Dean watches him go, an empty hollow forming in his chest.

Sam sits up on the couch when Dean storms past him on his way into the apartment.

“Shut up and leave me alone, Sammy,” Dean snarls before his brother can get a word out, slamming the bedroom door behind him.

Dean finds a bottle of scotch he has stashed in the back of his closet and proceeds to drink until he can’t feel his face anymore, although the dull ache behind his ribs doesn’t ease one bit. He passes out just before dawn.

The next morning’s hangover is impressive.

Sam doesn’t speak to him in the apartment or the car ride to the clinic, which suits Dean’s foul mood just fine. Dean pulls away the instant Sam slams the car door shut, debating whether or not he should just call in sick to the office to avoid seeing Cas. But fuck that, he’s a goddamned professional and he can suck it up and do his job, even after being rejected by his best-friend-slash-boss. 

The instant he walks through the front door, he is slammed against the wall, his throat pinned down by Meg’s alarmingly strong arm.

“Ok, Winchester, what the hell did you do?”

“Jesus, fuck, Meg!” Dean sputters. She sneers at him.

“I sincerely hope none of those three words are your answer.”

“What the hell are you on about?” Dean questions, even though he already knows exactly what has Meg’s panties in a twist.

“Angel called me this morning with some bullshit story about bad shrimp. He’s a mess. What did you do?”

Dean pushes her off him, discomforted by how difficult that is when she is nearly a foot shorter and not exactly bulky.

“I uh, I may have told him,” Dean confesses, not meeting Meg’s eyes as he tries to step around her.

“Told him  _ what _ exactly.” Meg’s voice is steel.

“That I wanted to kiss him?” Dean says weakly. Meg is silent. Dean chances a glance back towards her. If anyone were to have told him that one day he would be intimidated by a petite young woman dressed in clubwear at an accountant’s office, he would have laughed in their face. He takes another step away from Meg. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” she snaps. She glares coldly at him for another moment before sighing. “You obviously fucked up. I told you that if you hurt him I would fucking end you.”

“What?  _ He _ rejected  _ me _ !”

“In case it escaped your notice, Clarence is  _ fucked up _ . So are you, obviously, but you got nothing on the Novak so-called-family.”

“What, this is some kind of messed up  _ gen _ thing?”

“No, this is a messed up  _ Castiel _ thing. I’ll deal with it. Now, get the hell out of this office.”

Dean scowls down at her.

“You can’t fire me.”

“I’m not fucking firing you. Hell, I’m not even telling you not to come back. Look, I know that messed up as you are, you really do care about Angel and I also know that messed up as he is, he cares about you, too, so I said I’ll deal with it. I just don’t want to look at your pretty-ass face right now. Get the hell out.”

Meg grabs his arm and manhandles him across the room, terrifying Cheryl who is reaching for the door handle just as Meg tugs it open and shoves Dean out.

“What the fuck, Meg!” Dean shouts, stumbling to get his feet under him and turning back towards the door.

“Nope,” Meg says succinctly and slams the door shut. 

Dean is left standing in front of the office, mouth gaping, glaring at the closed door. At least now he has an excuse to slink off and mope. He makes his way to the diner down the street and ignores the incredulous looks from the waiter when he orders pie for breakfast.

After that, Dean just wanders through the streets for a while, trying to see what Cas likes so much about walking around Chicago. To him it all seems like rushing cars and sticky sidewalks and humid smog. His stomach is rumbling and he’s thinking about lunch when his phone rings.

“Dean Winchester? My name is Missouri Mosely, and I work at the South Shore Rehab Clinic. You should probably get yourself down here, your brother needs you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can visit me at my [Tumblr](http://jailikechai.tumblr.com)!


	11. Relapse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The course of recovery never runs smooth. The same can be said about the course of true love.
> 
> Once again, I have no experience with drugs, addiction, or recovery, so apologies for any mistakes.

“Sammy!” Dean knows his voice is too loud when he bursts into the clinic, but he doesn’t care. Sam isn’t in the reception area, of course.

The woman at the reception desk takes in Dean’s flustered expression with a kind, no-nonsense, appraising look. 

“You must be Mr. Winchester,” the woman infers.

“Ms. Mosely,” Dean says, reading her nametag, “You’re the one who called me? Where’s Sam?”

“He’s with the doctors. You’ll have to wait a moment until I can have someone walk you back,” she informs him.

“Excuse me,” Dean can hear his voice getting louder and more hysterical, but is powerless to stop it, “but I was lead to believe this was an emergency. I need to see my brother.”

“Quiet, you,” Missouri scolds. “You’ll see your brother in a few minutes. As I assume you are an adult and therefore capable of some measure of restraint, I expect you to wait patiently for someone to come and walk you back.”

Dean swallows the lump in his throat and nods meekly. He barely has to wait before an intern wearing blue scrubs comes to collect him.

Sam is huddled in a chair in the corner of a quiet room. He blinks dazedly up at Dean when he enters.

“Dean?” His voice is slow, like he’s trying to talk through a mouth full of sticky sweet molasses. 

“Sammy?” Dean blinks a few times, trying to process what he’s seeing. Sam’s eyes are mournful, and they fill with tears that start to spill down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry. I was trying so hard, but I just - I’m sorry,” Sam sobs. Dean instinctively kneels next to him and wraps his arms around his little brother. Sam buries his face in Dean’s shoulder and continues to cry.

“Shh, Sam, I’m here,” Dean soothes, looking back for some sort of guidance from Missouri, or the doctor who has just appeared in the doorway.

“Relapse,” the doctor explains quietly, and Dean clings to his giant baby brother. Guilt pulses through Dean’s veins. He’s been so wrapped up in Cas over the past week he wasn’t watching out for his brother. He even  _ yelled _ at Sam last night, that’s probably what pushed him over the edge. 

While the drugs slowly flush out of Sam’s system, Dean talks to doctor, who has a list of suggestions on how to help prevent another relapse. A change of environment might do both of them good, the doctor suggests, and Dean immediately latches on to the idea. Get out of Chicago, away from the city streets, away from the chaos. Dean’s certainly not thinking about getting away from Cas.

It doesn’t take too much to make the arrangements. After the doctors give Sam the all clear, Dean makes sure there’s gas in the Impala and pulls them out onto the open road. He does call into the office, remembering his last unexplained absence, but both Cas and Meg are missing. Dean explains to Cheryl that a family emergency has come up and he’s going to be staying with his aunt and uncle for a while, but they can get a hold of them if they need to. He doesn’t figure that they’ll need to, since Dean assumes that, between inappropriately hitting on the boss and then skipping town without explanation, he is definitely fired.

The rumbling of the Impala’s wheels over the smooth pavement soothes Sam as much as it does Dean. They roll down the windows and turn up the music, and sit together in comfortable silence, leaving their problems behind them in the city, at least for the moment. The don’t talk about what went down the past few days, or discuss what will happen when they arrive at their destination. Dean’s at least 60% certain that Ellen won’t chase them away with a shotgun, but that leaves a 40% chance that she  _ will _ .

The weather grows cooler the further west they drive, and the air becomes clearer free from the Chicago city smog. Dean sucks in grateful breaths and lets his thoughts drift to nothing. They arrive in Sioux Falls in the late afternoon under a sky splashed with a brilliant orange and yellow sunset. 

“Wow,” Sam gasps, sitting up and staring out the window as the streets roll past. “Everything looks exactly the same.”

“Yep, pretty much,” Dean agrees. “Kinda freaky, huh?”

“You took me to that pizza place for my twelfth birthday,” Sam says, pointing to the landmark as it passes by, sounding dazed.

“You ok there, Sammy?” Dean glances over with an amused half-smile.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m ok, it’s just… weird. Being back here, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

They pass through the rest of the city in silence, taking in the strange familiarity of the surroundings. Dean’s phone buzzes as they reach the edge of the downtown area. Sam looks down at the screen.

“It’s Cas. You want me to answer?”

Dean plucks the phone out of Sam’s hands and tosses it into the backseat. Sam watches it buzz safely out of reach on the far side of the car.

“Is there something going on between you two?” he asks, looking from the phone back to Dean.

“There’s nothing going on,” Dean grunts, and Sam knows better than to ask again.

When they reach the outskirts of the city, Sam starts to get twitchy.

“Are you sure about this?” His fingers tap nervous rhythms on his thighs. Dean is not much better off.

“I unloaded Ellen’s shotgun last time I was here,” Dean offers. Sam’s look is not amused.

The  _ Singer’s Salvage _ sign soon looms over their heads and the brothers offer each other one last supportive glance before they pull up in front of the ramshackled old house. Ellen is already standing on the porch, arms crossed over her chest, her jaw set in angry tension. No shotgun in sight, though.

“I told Bobby I heard the Impala’s engine in the driveway and he told me I was crazy, ‘cause Dean’s in Chicago,” Ellen calls as the boys climb out of the car. “I gotta think about what he owes me now seein’s how I was right. And not just one, but  _ two _ Winchesters inside her.”

“Hey, Ellen,” Dean answers, but Sam hangs back silently beside the car. Ellen stares him down.

“You scared of me, boy?” She asks, lifting an eyebrow as she scans Sam’s oversized form from head to toe.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam nods. Ellen sniffs.

“Smart man. Get your dumb ass over here and give me a hug.”

Dean smiles as Sam practically falls forward the few steps into Ellen’s arms. She pulls him close to her chest and rocks him back and forth a few times.

“Welcome home, Sam,” she whispers into his thick crop of hair. Sam’s shoulders shake, uncertain whether to laugh or cry. Ellen keeps hold of Sam with one arm, and lifts the other to pat Dean on the shoulder when he joins them on the porch.

“Look what I found loitering on the front yard,” Ellen announces as she leads the Winchesters into the living room. Bobby looks up from his book, his eyes popping wide and he whistles.

“I owe you something good, woman.”

Ellen snorts her agreement. Bobby stands in front of Sam, hands on his shoulders, looking him over much as Ellen had done earlier. Then he tugs the taller man into his arms, clapping a hand over his back.

“Good to see you, Sam,” Bobby chokes out gruffly, patting him a few more times for good measure. Bobby releases Sam and nods at Dean. “Dean.”

“Bobby,” Dean nods back.

“I’m assuming you boys have a good excuse for just rolling in here unannounced like you own the place,” Ellen says, crossing her arms as she takes a seat and proceeds to stare them down levelly. 

“And an even better one for not calling us to check in,” Bobby adds. The brothers share a guilty look and prepare themselves for the inquisition.

All things told, it’s not so bad. Dean starts with Sam’s first appearance back in Chicago, high as a kite and clinging onto Ruby while attempting to scam drug money out of his estranged brother. He leads into Sam’s overdose and time in rehab. Sam looks appropriately ashamed and adds apologies and commentary where he can.

Ellen and Bobby are angry, Dean can tell, but they don’t yell, which makes it that much worse. The boys have punished themselves enough, they say, and the disappointment in their eyes hurts worse than any pain they could have inflicted. They deserve so much better than two fuck-ups like him and Sam. At least they’ve got Jo making them proud with her civil rights work in the big city.

Sam quietly excuses himself to make a quick call to check in with his therapist back at the clinic in Chicago, leaving Dean alone with Ellen and Bobby.

“I’m not going to tell you yer a coward, Dean Winchester, ‘cause you already know that,” Bobby says when Sam’s out of the room, “and you know you should have come to us. But you got to stop beating yourself up about it. You can’t solve Sam’s problems for him.”

“That’s what Sam’s girlfriend keeps saying,” Dean snorts.

“Girlfriend?” Ellen lifts a concerned eyebrow.

“Well, not girlfriend. Jess. Sam won’t ask her out ‘cause she’s a mod,” Dean clarifies. The older couple share a laden glance, which Dean ignores.

“What about you, honey,” Ellen asks. “I talked to you not one week ago you were all weepy and miserable and you didn’t say a word about Sam. And don’t think I’m through with you on that point. But we’ve been all over Sam’s problems, and not a word on you. Something happened.”

Dean is pretty sure that women develop a whole host of extra senses when they become mothers and it’s frightening. 

“It’s nothing,” Dean sighs. “Forget it. Sam’s the one who really needs help.”

“‘S not nothing if it dragged your butt all the way out here and away from your - what’s his name? - Casteel?” Bobby tests the name out on his tongue.

“Castiel.” And, speak of the devil, Dean’s phone buzzes, lighting up with Cas’s name. Dean swiftly hits the ignore button, missing another worried look shared between his pseudo-parents. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “So is it alright if we stay awhile? Until Sam’s back on his feet.”

“For a while,” Ellen agrees, her expression serious and concerned. “But you can’t just run away forever.”

~~

Dean makes french toast in the morning in an attempt to make up for everything. There’s butter melting in the pan on the stove and he’s whisking vanilla and milk into a bowl of beaten eggs when the phone on the wall starts to ring. Dean ignores it. Who even keeps a landline anymore? It takes nine rings before the shrill noise stops. It starts again almost immediately and now Dean glares at the offending technology.

There are only three rings this time, and Dean gratefully wonders if the early morning caller has given up. Apparently not, though, because a very grumpy Bobby dressed in nothing but striped boxer shorts, a holey wifebeater, and his baseball cap staggers into the kitchen and pushes a cordless phone into Dean’s hands with a scowl.

“It’s for you,” Bobby says sourly, turning away from Dean to search out the coffee he can smell brewing. Dean hesitantly lifts the phone to his ear.

“Uh. Hello?”

“Hello, Dean,” a voice that sounds like it’s been gargling gravel in its sleep greets him.

“ _ Cas _ ?”

“Yes.”

“Cas - what the hell. How did you get this number?”

“You weren’t answering my calls. Cheryl said you were staying with your aunt and uncle.”

“And you, what, tracked them down so you could find me?”

“It was not difficult. It only took a few hours last night, but as it was late and I didn’t want to wake anyone, I decided to wait until morning to call.”

It’s so very Cas, Dean doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. 

“Very stalker-ish of you,” Dean comments as he sinks down in one of the chairs beside the kitchen table. Bobby, now armed with a steaming mug of coffee, gives him a questioning look, but Dean waves him away. With a huff, the older man shuts off the heat on the stove and stalks out of the room.

“I wanted to apologize,” Castiel’s voice says, sounding tinny and not quite real over the phone. “Meg convinced me that I may have reacted poorly after our last conversation. I was also concerned when you left town so abruptly and I wanted to make sure you and Sam are both OK.”

“We’re fine. Sam had a kind of incident with his treatment and needed to get out of town a while.” Dean doesn’t know what else to say, so he falls silent. The air feels thick as the awkward silence persists. Finally Castiel clears his throat.

“I am glad that you aren’t in any serious trouble, then. Do you know how long you’ll be gone? I thought we had planned to make that trip to Springfield next week.”

“You want me back?” Dean realizes immediately what that sounds like and can’t course correct fast enough. “I mean, you’re not gonna fire me?”

“Why would I fire you?” Cas sounds genuinely puzzled, and Dean wants to smooth out his squinty expression that he can practically see over the phone.

“I - uh - you know.” Dean’s face flushes red and he’s grateful Cas can’t see him. “And I kinda just took off without advance notice.”

“You left because of a family emergency, which is understandable, although I would have preferred that you called me directly instead of leaving a message with Cheryl. And the other thing…” Castiel’s voice trails off and Dean thinks that he’s considering what to say next.

“You know we’re friends, right?” Dean blurts out. “It wasn’t some con to get in your pants or anything.”

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel replies quietly. “I understand that, now. And Meg was very… persistent… on that point. I just -” He falls silent again and Dean’s heart flutters uncomfortably in his chest. “The possibility of considering you in a romantic way honestly never occurred to me,” Cas says after a long pause. “I don’t feel the same way, and I panicked.”

“Oh.” It’s all Dean can think of to say. His fluttering heart is now a solid lump of dead weight pressing against his ribs.

“However, unlike Mr. Crowley or others in the ‘media’-” Dean can practically hear Cas’ scornful air quotes, “- I believe you are professional, and competent, and fully capable of performing your job admirably regardless of a harmless crush.”

Harmless crush. Right.

“Thanks Cas,” Dean says, hoping that his sincerity isn’t drowned under his disappointment. He really is grateful to hear Cas vouch for him.

“You’re welcome,” Castiel responds automatically, and Dean can’t help but smile. 

“I need to stay here with Sam for a while, make sure he’s ok, but we can still do Springfield next week,” Dean offers.

“That should be acceptable.”

“Ok, good. Call if you need anything. And don’t let Meg answer the phones or prep you for interviews or anything,” Dean warns. 

“We will be fine, Dean, but thank you. I will see you next week.” Castiel sounds amused, which Dean doesn’t find reassuring.

“Yeah. Thanks again, Cas.”

Castiel makes an affirmative sound, and the call disconnects. Sam pokes his groggy-looking head into the kitchen.

“Lover’s spat?” Sam asks, voice still rough with sleep. “Bobby said you were on the phone sounding like you were about to go in front of the firing squad.”

“That was Cas,” Dean huffs. Sam lifts an eyebrow. He searches through kitchen cabinets for a clean mug to pour himself some coffee.

“The question still stands,” Sam says, sitting down at the table across from Dean and taking a sip from his mug. “C’mon, you’ve been off about Cas lately. Something happen?”

“Thought he was gonna fire me for taking off without notice,” Dean hedges, turning the stove on and preparing to get back to his interrupted french toast.

“But he didn’t,” Sam stated.

“No, he didn’t.” 

Sam waits for Dean to say something else, but all he does is carefully place a couple of slices of egg-soaked bread into the sizzling butter in his pan and ignore Sam.

“Dean! When are you going to talk about what’s going on between you two!” Sam can’t take it any more.

“I’ll talk the same day you start talking about what’s going on with you and Jess,” Dean counters, which effectively shuts Sam up. Ellen enters the kitchen and mouths  _ Jess? _ to Dean, who only shakes his head. Dean pokes at the cooking toast and Sam stares moodily into his coffee. Ellen rolls her eyes and collects her own coffee, then exits the room again in a huff.

“Sorry, man,” Dean sighs after a long silence broken only by the sizzle from the pan when he flips the toast over. “I’m just not really up for some kind of chick flick moment over breakfast.”

“Yeah, alright,” Sam mumbles, and thanks Dean when a perfectly golden brown slice french toast slides in front of him. 

~~

Bobby puts the boys to work. Sam is not allowed near the cars after what becomes known as ‘The Incident’ on their first day back in Sioux Falls, but Bobby shuts him in the old office out back of the garage with several years worth of disorganized files to sort through. Sam shudders when he hears Ellen mutter something about tax filings while she watches him work one day.

Dean dives into the engines with gusto, happy to occupy himself with the inner mechanics of machines instead of people. Machines are nice and solid and predictable. They don’t try and get you to talk about your feelings, or drown you in clever insults, or glare at you with impossibly blue eyes and argue about gelato. Bobby is also good company, mostly quiet, and only occasionally barking out a gruff order.

Things are going along, neither particularly well, nor especially badly, just going, for about a week. The week was so incident free that Bobby and Ellen decide that they can trust the boys to handle the house and the garage for a day so they can have some well deserved ‘marital bonding’ time. Dean and Sam make the appropriate faces and gagging noises and practically shove their adoptive parents out of the house. Predictably, as soon as they are gone things start to go wrong.

“Dean,” Sam calls from the downstairs bathroom, “is there a plunger somewhere in the house?”

Dean hates himself for peering into the bathroom where Sam is staring down at the toilet in horrified fascination.

“Dude,” Dean grimaces, backing away from the room - and the stench - as quickly as possible. “What did you eat?”

Sam flips him the finger. They find the plunger in the upstairs hall closet, and Dean leaves Sam to do the dirty work.

“Oh shit,” Dean hears Sam’s voice say about ten minutes later, at exactly the same time an unfamiliar motor growls up the driveway. Sam’s voice is accompanied by the sound of gurgling and rushing water, and the motor cuts out and is replaced by a loud, angry sounding voice shouting. Dean wavers, not sure which sounds deserve his immediate attention.

“Sammy, you ok?” he ends up yelling as he heads for the front door and the unfamiliar shouting. 

“Uh,” Sam’s un-reassuring grunt returns. Dean scowls, but trusting his giant brother can handle his own toilet troubles, he yanks open the front door to find an impossibly beautiful teenaged girl standing next to a new, cherry-red Chevy Camaro, shouting for Bobby.

“Hey, can I help you?” Dean cuts through the girl’s shouting. She looks him up and down with a sneer, her eyes an unnaturally brilliant shade of violet, a favorite designer color of yuppie billionaires everywhere. She’s either a gen, or she had a very expensive and unnecessary cosmetic eye replacement surgery.

“Is Mr. Singer here?”

“Nope.” 

“Well, do you work here, then?” she drawls.

“Guess you could say that,” Dean replied, crossing his arms over his chest and staring her down. 

“Your craptastic boss jacked up my car,” she informed him, waving a manicured hand towards the Camaro, which sat gleaming in the sun. 

“What’s wrong with it?” Dean eyes the little red car doubtfully. New-model yuppie sports cars aren’t really his thing.

“My boyfriend bought a part for the engine from Mr. Singer, and now it makes this  _ noise _ ,” the girl’s lip curls. 

“Isn’t that car new? Why are you putting salvage parts in it?” Dean is honestly baffled more than anything, but the girl looks at him like he just insulted her grandma. 

“Hey, Dean?” Sam’s voice suddenly calls from the back of the house. 

“Kinda busy here, Sam!”

“No, I really think you should come look at this,” Sam boomed.

Dean closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens his eyes again, he offers the girl with the Camaro his most Charming Smile.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells her. She smiles back.

“I’m not going anywhere until someone fixes my car,” she replies sweetly,  violet eyes cold and hard. 

Dean grits his teeth and sprints towards the back of the house. Cold water splashes up his leg when he dashes through a puddle. In the hallway.

“Ugh!” Dean shakes his damp pant leg, his nose wrinkling. His predicament is nowhere close to Sam’s, who is standing near the overflowing toilet holding a stick in one hand that was formerly attached to the plunger, little eddies of water swirling around his shoes, his jeans soaked up to the knee. “What the hell!” Dean shouts, unnecessarily loud. 

“Dean, it’s - uh - it’s moving,” Sam grates out in a hoarse whisper, pointing at the rubber end of the plunger firmly attached to the toilet bowl. Dean tries to avoid the streams of water trickling across the bathroom floor as he peers into the flooded porcelain bowl. The plunger rocks, as if pushed from underneath.

“Jesus fucking christ!” Dean jumps back.

“Hey, my car’s not getting any less broken up here! I can sue for this, you know!” a thin, girly voice shrieks from the front driveway.

“Who’s that?” Sam asks, his eyes never leaving the bulging, rocking plunger.

“Customer,” Dean says sharply. “Go shut off the main water before the whole place floods,” he orders, backing away to head back towards the angry little gen and her sports car.

“What about -” Sam waves towards the toilet. 

“Save the house first. Ellen’s gonna murder both of us if there’s water damage to the hardwood.”

“Right. Where’s the main water supply and how do I shut it off?”

Dean groans.

“Ok, I’ll go shut off the water, you try and calm down GE Barbie,” Dean points Sam in the direction of the driveway.

Dean locates the main water shutoff valve around the back of the house and cuts the water, then heads towards the front of the house. Sam is lifting up the hood of the girl’s car and looking down at the engine like a bomb about to explode in his face. Dean might have laughed if stress wasn’t currently chewing on his intestines. 

“I got this Sam, why don’t you go check on the, uh - issue - back in the house,” Dean says, patting Sam on the back.

“This is so unprofessional. I should have known that a  _ norm _ can’t even be trusted to hire competent employees,” the girl sneers with a dramatic roll of her eyes. Sam jerks, opening his mouth to say something inevitably even more unprofessional, but Dean shoves him towards the house before any sound comes out.

“Go,” he orders sharply. Sam glares at him and the girl. The look Dean gives him in return gives him no room for further argument, and Sam slinks back in the house.

One glance at the girl’s car and Dean knows what’s wrong. He sighs.

“You said your boyfriend bought a part from Bobby?”

“Oh my god, are you a norm too? Do you even have a memory?”

“Was it this part?” Dean pointed to the glaringly out of place piece in the engine.

“How would  _ I _ know? I’m built to drive cars, not fix them.”

“What about your boyfriend? Is he GE’d to know shit about cars, ‘cause from what I can see he bought a salvaged piece from an old Honda and installed it in a new Chevy for no good reason.”

“I think he would know. His IQ is higher than your precious little norm brain can probably conceive of.  _ Your boss _ sold him the wrong part.”

Dean wonders how high the girl’s IQ is, and if there’s any correlation between IQ specs and bitchiness. Can you GE bitchiness?

“Yeah, Bobby wouldn’t sell  _ that part _ for  _ this car _ . No one who knows anything about cars would.”

The girl’s next comment is cut off from a weird shrieking noise coming from the back of the house. It takes a second for Dean to identify it as Sam screaming like a little girl. Dean reflexively starts to move in his direction.

“Sam? What’s going on?” he shouts. 

“Hey!” the girl yells over him, stamping her foot like an angry child. “I am talking to you! I’m a paying customer! Forget your brainless norm shit and fix my goddamned car, that’s what you’re here for isn’t it?”

“You’re an idiot!” Dean finally snaps. “Norms are people with lives, they’re not here to cater to your fucking superiority complex. You’re not better than me just ‘cause mommy and daddy had the extra cash to spend on a tricked out doll baby. And there’s nothing wrong with your car, the original part probably wasn’t even broke to start out with, just switch it back out.”

“I am not a  _ doll _ ,” the girl practically screamed, stamping her foot again. “You’re just -”

Her insult is interrupted by Sam streaking out of the house, shaking something large, wet, and wriggling off of a cracked dustpan. The thing lands on the ground with a splatter that sprays a few drops of foul smelling water onto the girl’s designer shoes. It immediately shakes more water off itself and launches itself at top speed towards the Camaro. 

Dean actually has to clap his hands over his ears to shut out the ear-drum shattering scream that comes out of the girl’s throat. The Camaro is gone so fast that Dean has to do a double take to remember that the girl did, in fact, drive it away instead of just magically disappearing. 

“Rat,” Sam gasps, leaning his hands on his knees. “There was a rat in the toilet.”

Dean gawks at him. 

“You pulled a frickin’  _ rat _ out of the  _ toilet _ ,” he states. Sam nods, his shoulders shaking in either amusement or leftover anxiety, Dean can’t tell. “Then you ran all the way through the house with a  _ toilet rat _ on a dustpan and threw it at a customer.” 

Sam shakes harder, rocked by what is now definitely silent laughter. Dean rubs a hand over his face.

“Jesus christ, Sam,” he gasps, shaking his head.

“Oh my god, her  _ face _ ,” Sam chokes through his shit-eating grin. Dean cracks. A smile crawls over his face, and his head falls back as his bray of laughter rocks through him. He claps a hand on Sam’s broad back and they laugh loud and long together.

The house gets cleaned up and Dean grills a couple of steaks for dinner while the brothers talk about everything and nothing. For the first time in a long time Dean feels like he has a brother again. They sit silently on the front porch sipping from bottles of Coke and enjoy the breeze.

“I think it’s good, you know,” Sam says out of nowhere, breaking the comfortable quiet. Dean gives him a questioning look. Sam looks out towards the horizon. “You and Cas.”

“Oh.” Dean inspects the drips of condensation rolling down the side of his bottle of soda. 

“Just - yeah. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I wanted you to know. It’s good. If you’re happy, it’s good.”

“Stats say I’m not gay,” Dean says quietly to the ground. Sam shrugs.

“I don’t think the mods work that way,” he replies. Dean turns his head and levels a serious gaze with Cas-levels of intensity on his big little brother.

“Then what’s the problem with you and Jess?”

Sam’s eyes trace the tire tracks in the dirt of the driveway. His shoulders heave when he sighs heavily.

“We’re pretty messed up, aren’t we,” Sam observes. Dean chuckles darkly.

“At least we’re both messed up together.” 

Sam ducks his head and smiles. Dean takes a sip from his Coke and the two brothers watch the sun set.

  
  



	12. Springfield, IL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean feeds Cas pie.

Dean blinks his eyes and it’s time for him to go to Springfield to meet up with Cas. A week away and Dean feels steady again. Even Sam is looking healthier, and while they’re not exactly sharing their feelings, the atmosphere between them feels more comfortable than it has in years. Dean’s ready to take on life again.

He hums happily along with the radio as the Impala hums down the wide, flat midwestern roads. The reminder that he gets to see Cas again in a few hours makes his heart speed up a few ticks. He wonders what kind of new restaurants there are in Springfield that he can get Cas to try. Or maybe just some good, honest American steak and potatoes for a change. That sound like a nice, patriotic political statement to make in the state capital. Besides, Cas definitely likes steak.

Dean flirts with the girl at the reception desk of the Marriott, just because he’s in a good mood and it’s nice to see her shy smile. He’s leaning his elbows on the desk when a low voice rumbles from just behind him, “Hello, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t quite jump, but he turns, and there’s Castiel, right in front of him, as usual a little closer than socially acceptable, in all his trench-coat-clad, rumpled-suit, messy-haired glory. The cheeky smile Dean was wearing for the receptionist grows and warms, reflecting the sudden spark of burning heat coming from somewhere deep in his chest.

Nothing but a simple crush, Dean stubbornly tells the feeling behind his ribs. He can totally handle this.

“Hey, Cas,” he says, patting the man’s shoulder, “good to see you, buddy. We talked about the personal space, remember?”

Castiel takes a careful, half-step backwards, his eyes shining with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his lips, but makes Dean feel warm regardless. 

“How is Sam?” 

Dean wants to hug Cas for asking about Sam before saying anything else. Just that little bit of concern means the world to him. Ok, maybe he wants to hug Cas anyway, but the sentiment doesn’t hurt.

“He’s good,” Dean replies, running fingers through his hair for lack of anything better to do with his hands. “Better. It was a good idea to get out of the city.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Castiel stares awkwardly for a moment and Dean just drinks in the regard. It feel like longer than a week since they last saw each other. Castiel finally clears his throat. “Have you finished checking in?”

Dean blinks and hurriedly turns around to face the receptionist once again. She’s watching them with a soft, if slightly disappointed, expression. She slides Dean’s key card across the desk.

“Enjoy your stay,” she wishes him, flicking her eyes from Dean to Castiel and smiling. Dean turns away hurriedly, heaving his duffle bag onto his shoulder and jerking his head for Cas to follow him towards the elevators.

Their rooms are on the same floor, but on opposite sides of the building. Dean inspects his pristine room, impressed; it’s certainly a change from the dives that he usually stays in.  _ Business expense, completely tax deductible _ , Castiel had explained, eyes shining. 

Dean showers off the travel grime and dresses casually in jeans and a button down before heading down the hall and tapping on Castiel’s door. Dean hears someone fumbling around inside for a minute before the door swings open, revealing Cas, who is wearing a sweater vest.

Meg mocks Castiel’s sweater vests incessantly, but Dean has never actually seen him dressed in one. Now that he has, he might be as obsessed as Meg about them. Castiel looks seriously, adorably dorky.

“Dean,” Castiel greets him.

“You wanna grab dinner?” Dean asks, congratulating himself on not commenting on Cas’ outfit, because that took some major willpower. 

“I - yes, ok, just give me a minute,” Castiel responds shortly, turning away and the heavy hotel room door slams shut the minute he takes his hand away. Dean blinks at the blank surface of the door in front of his face. It swings back open after a minute. Dean stares mutely at Cas. “Sorry,” Castiel apologizes, rubbing the back of his neck with the hand that’s not clutching his trenchcoat. Dean shakes his head.

“No worries, man,” he says. He looks pointedly at Cas’ coat. “Don’t you think it’s getting a little warm for that thing?”

Castiel clutches the coat a little tighter.

“Perhaps,” he admits, but doesn’t move to put the coat away, simply slides past Dean into the hallway and lets the hotel room door slam shut behind him. “It’s familiar, and comforting in an unfamiliar setting, however, and I’d prefer to have it with me.”

“You wear that thing around everywhere ‘cause it’s a  _ security blanket _ ?” Dean stares at Cas’ receding, sweater vest clad back. That’s weird and cute and so very Cas. Castiel just shrugs one shoulder uncomfortably. Dean trails behind him down the hallway towards the elevators. 

Dinner is nothing fancy, they head down to the small diner next door to the hotel and order burgers and fries. To Dean’s relief, it’s not even awkward, as if he hadn’t previously made an ass of himself and then spent a week cowering two states over. They settle back into an easy camaraderie, and discuss their plans for the next few days. It’s easy, and familiar, like everything always is with Cas.

Dean walks Cas back to the door of his hotel room before he realizes what he’s doing. Castiel either doesn’t notice or chooses not to comment on the redness of his face, just offering him a polite goodnight and a shy smile. Back in his own room, Dean collapses back onto his bed, throwing an arm over his face with a groan. Simple crush, yeah right.

Dean doesn’t say anything when Castiel wears the trenchcoat to their lunch with Greg Rickard, the investment banker. Rickard seems endlessly amused by Cas’ awkward mannerisms, to Cas’ confusion. It works out in their favor, though, and Rickard offers to introduce Castiel to what he refers to as the ‘movers and shakers’ of the Illinois financial world. Cas is thankfully able to bite back any scathing responses to Rickard’s scoffs at his small-time tax accounting practice. 

“So, how ‘bout you, Winchester,” Rickard turns to Dean as lunch is winding down. “Enjoying our glorious state capital?”

“It’s certainly different from what I’m used to,” Dean answers diplomatically.

“That’s right, you’re not from Illinois,” Rickard nods. “Ohio, was it?”

“That’s where I was for the past ten years or so. Before that, we moved around a lot when I was a kid. Kansas and South Dakota, mostly.”

“Good midwest stock, still,” Rickard approves. “Good genes. Not like this one, eh?” Rickard chuckles as he jerks a thumb towards Cas, who looks down and grits his teeth. Dean’s eyes narrow.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. What’s wrong with Cas’ genes?” Dean’s smile is polite and cold. Rickard rolls his eyes.

“Aw, don’t be like that. Just a little joke. Gens, you know, all that spankin’ brand new genetic code, don’t have the history, the heritage the rest of us got.” 

“Doesn’t make him any less of a person.”

“Lighten up, man, it’s just a joke.”

“Dean.” Cas lays a hand over Dean’s arm on top of the table. He catches Dean’s eye, and his minuit head tilt tells Dean,  _ please don’t ruin this _ . Dean takes a breath and shakes himself.

“So, Greg, what’s a man got to do to get a slice of pie around here?” Dean attempts to defrost his smile, and Rickard plunges into a description of a diner in downtown Springfield that serves, honest-to-god, at least ten different varieties of pie. Rickard recommends the key lime; his wife likes the peach pie. Castiel gives Dean a look filled with gratitude. 

“So you’re here for a few more days, right, Novak? I’ll see if I can round up some folks for dinner some time before you leave,” Rickard offers as they leave the restaurant.

“I’d enjoy that, thank you,” Castiel accepts graciously. 

“I’ll call your assistant, then,” Rickard motions to Dean.

“Dean is my - ah - campaign manager, not my assistant, but yes, that is acceptable.”

Rickard laughs, slapping a meaty hand on his thigh. “Right, acceptable, right. See you round, Novak, Winchester.”

They share hearty handshakes as Rickard’s car pulls up to the valet. When he drives away, Dean turns to Cas with a grin.

“You just give me a promotion, Cas?”

Castiel stares him down.

“I thought the title more appropriate to the job you perform. Meg is my assistant, and you go above and beyond the responsibilities of a mere consultant.”

Dean ducks his head. “Yeah. Thanks.” He offers Cas a crooked smile. “That come with a pay raise?”

Cas responds with nothing but a flat stare. Dean laughs.

“C’mon! I’m paying for my brother’s rehab, remember?”

Castiel turns away without a word and starts walking down the street towards where they parked the Impala.

“Cas!” Dean jogs after him, shaking his head and grinning.

Castiel assures Dean that he will be fine on his own for the afternoon meetings he scheduled with various politicians and professionals and his few out of town clients. He promises to meet Dean back at the hotel after dinner to regroup and review the afternoon’s activity. Dean sends him off with a wave and a reassuring smile, watching Cas square his shoulders in his trenchcoat and march down the sidewalk.

Dean sits behind the wheel of the Impala, wondering what to do with the upcoming hours to himself. He has a few things he could work on for Cas, but he’s desperate to take his mind  _ off _ of Castiel for once. He could study, but who’s he kidding, absolutely no studying is going to get done. Most likely he’ll just drift off into daydreams about Cas, which, again, is exactly what he’s trying to avoid. 

Eventually he ends up wandering around the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum, which turn out to be fascinating. He resolves never to let Sam know about his afternoon of geeking out over political history. Unable to resist, he heads to the diner Rickard recommended, and discovers that they are actually serving  _ twelve _ different varieties of pie. 

For once in his life, Dean is overwhelmed by pie. He’s not sure how many slices he can eat, or what flavors he should choose. He considers bringing a slice back to the hotel for Cas, then remembers that Castiel is not exactly enthusiastic about the pastry. Then he  _ reconsiders _ that maybe Castiel’s lack of enthusiasm is only because he hasn’t yet tasted the  _ right _ pie.

Dean buys a slice of all twelve varieties and boxes them all up to take back to the hotel.

It’s later than he thought when he finally gets back to the hotel. Cas is back in his room when Dean pounds on the door. Castiel tugs the heavy door open to reveal Dean juggling two bags filled with takeout boxes of pie in his hands, and a shit-eating grin on his face. 

“Hope you didn’t eat too much at dinner, ‘cause I’m gonna find a pie you like if it kills me,” Dean informs him, shouldering his way into the room past a slack-jawed Castiel. Cas stares at Dean as if he’s seeing him for the first time.

Cas likes banana cream pie, of all things.

He watches Dean with wide blue eyes as Dean unpacks all twelve slices of pie and arranges them in two neat lines on the hotel room’s desk. Dean pushes a plastic fork into his hand and, with a grin, orders him to start tasting.

Castiel takes one bite out of each slice, his eyes narrowing and his forehead furrowing in concentration as he contemplates each flavor. It makes Dean feel so warm and full inside that he almost forgets about eating the slices of pie that Cas rejects. Dean wants to groan when Cas’ eyes light up when he bites into the banana cream pie - because, banana cream? Seriously? - but the smile Cas gives him shoves all other thoughts out of his mind.

They sit on the bed and stay up most of the night finishing off the pie. Cas redeems himself by also enjoying the peach pie, and moaning appreciatively at the flavor of the bourbon pecan pie, which incites a heated argument over who gets to finish that particular slice. Cas wins, and Dean has to excuse himself to the restroom to compose himself when Castiel relishes his triumph and the dessert with more pleased little noises. 

It’s the wrong side of dawn and Cas is all sleepy, contented smiles when Dean finally lets himself out of the room to catch a few hours of sleep before they start their new day. It almost kills him. Dean’s never seen Cas like this before, relaxed and smiling, still wearing his dress pants and shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a smudge of cherry filling on his thigh. Dean wants to lean into his warmth, he wants to wrap his arms around the man and make sure Cas always smiles and laughs as much as he is right now. Castiel’s eyes almost glow as he leans against the door and watches Dean walk down the hallway. 

Cas’ smiles are gone when Dean wakes him up the next morning. He scowls at Dean through heavy-lidded eyes, still half-dressed in last night’s wrinkled clothes, hair sticking up in wild tufts on one side and flattened onto his skull on the other. Dean, accustomed to dealing with grumpy morning Cas after late nights at the office, laughs and ruffles his hair and promises to bring breakfast up to the room if he showers and gets dressed. Castiel grumbles and slams the door shut and Dean interprets that as agreement.

Dean raids the hotel’s continental breakfast buffet. He fills the largest cup he can find with coffee for Cas (a smaller one for himself) and stacks an assortment of the finest pastries the hotel can begrudgingly scrounge up to give their guests for free on a flimsy paper plate. He adds an apple for good measure. He balances the two cups of coffee and the almost overflowing plate precariously and nods politely at the impeccably dressed business woman who gives him a horrified look as he climbs into the elevator.

Castiel only looks marginally more awake when he opens the door to let Dean into the room, but his eyes light up at the sight of Dean carrying coffee. Cas is half-dressed, his hair still dripping wet from his shower, his fresh white dress shirt hanging open across his bare chest, his slacks clean and pie-filling-free. He watches Dean with bright eyes over the lid of his coffee, and Dean tries his best not to stare at glimpses of smooth skin he can see under Cas’ shirt.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas expresses his gratitude after a few gulps of coffee. He starts picking apart a blueberry muffin, frowning at the crumbly texture.

“Yeah, no problem. Got to have you in fighting form, right? And technically it’s my fault for keeping you up so late last night.”

“It was not your fault. I could have kicked you out of my room at any time.”

“Nah, you wouldn’t kick me out. You love me too much.”

Cas goes still and his eyes go wide as he looks at Dean. Dean’s eyes dart aside and he can feel his face heat up as he considers what he just said. 

“I do… enjoy your company,” Cas confesses into his coffee, then hurriedly takes a sip. Dean’s heart flutters in his chest and he sternly commands it to stop its unwelcome antics.

Dean manages to hustle the still sleepy Castiel out of the hotel on time for a morning meeting. Dean reaches out to straighten Cas’ tie before letting him climb out of the Impala and Cas looks down to watch his hands, as if Dean hadn’t done this exact action a hundred times before. Dean pats his shoulder, and Castiel waves as he watches the car pull away. Dean glances in his rear-view mirror back at the trenchcoat-clad figure on the sidewalk once.

Dean goes back to the hotel, where he makes use of the ‘business lounge’ on the second floor, connecting his laptop to the hotel’s mind-numbingly slow free wifi and making an attempt to get some work done. He accomplishes very little, but enough that he doesn’t feel guilty about slacking off. He picks Cas up for lunch.

Castiel orders spaghetti bolognaise at the little American-Italian dive they end up at for lunch, which they are working out is one of his preferred dishes. 

“You like the simple things, huh,” Dean observes as he fondly watches Cas slurp up pasta. “Burgers, spaghetti, ice cream. Banana cream pie.”

Cas shrugs a shoulder. “It makes sense. My taste buds are attuned to respond to traditional American flavors.”

“Maybe, but you’re still picking which ones you like best. That’s pretty awesome, dude.”

Castiel practically glows at his words. Dean’s heart does another thing that he did not approve of beforehand. 

Greg Rickard calls shortly after lunch, and Dean hastily arranges for Cas to meet him for dinner that night. They spend the rest of the afternoon campaigning, or as Ellen would put it, schmoozing up the lobbyists. 

Back at the hotel, Dean sits on Cas’ bed and admires Castiel dressed up in a sharp, newly tailored suit and tie, as Cas holds out his arms and spins slowly to show off all his angles. Dean appreciates every view of him.

“You’re gonna knock ‘em dead, Cas,” Dean proclaims. “All those rich-ass sons of bitches are going to be falling all over themselves to vote for you.”

Cas frowns disapprovingly at his language. Dean smiles at him appeasingly.

“Do you need a ride to the restaurant?” Dean asks, and Cas shakes his head.

“No, I’ll take a cab.” He pauses on his way towards the door. “Thank you,” he adds, not looking at Dean.

“What for?” 

“This. All of this. For the meals, and the clothes, and driving me around. For supporting me. For being my friend.”

“Yeah. Well.” Dean rubs the back of his neck and shrugs. “You’re a good friend.”

Cas looks up at him and Dean is confronted with deep blue eyes filled with unreadable emotion. “I was wrong,” he blurts out, then immediately snaps his jaw shut, the words clearly slipping out without permission.

Dean smirks, amused at his unshakable friend suddenly flustered by an unsolicited confession. “‘Bout what?”

Castiel blinks slowly at him, like a cat. “Before,” he starts slowly, “I told you I didn’t return your feelings.” Dean’s heart stops in his chest. “I was wrong.”

Dean swallows, his brain scrambling for something, anything to say. “Cas -” he gulps. 

Castiel is already gone. The door closes behind him with a click. Dean stares at the emergency escape plaque bolted to the back of the door. It takes about thirty seconds for his brain to catch up and panic to start flooding through him.

The first panicked thought that runs through his mind is of Crowley, and Lisa, and the echo of Sam’s voice reminding him, ‘ _ remember what happened the last time you dated your boss _ ’. His second thought is of his father. What would John Winchester say about his son getting involved with a gay man? He’s supposed to be the perfect man’s man, with a house and a job and married to a beautiful woman with two and a half kids. ‘ _ I didn’t raise you to be gay _ ’, Dean hears his father say in his head. What does it make him if he develops feeling for a man - and that man has feelings back?

That brings him around to thoughts about the man in question. Castiel, the man who can’t knot his tie properly, who had never been to a baseball game, who doesn’t know what his favorite food is but is willing to try every food until he finds out. Castiel, the man with the bluest eyes Dean’s ever seen, and a voice so deep he can feel it in his bones. The man who cares about Sam, and who Meg calls an angel. The only one willing to give him a chance after all his mistakes. The one he calls his friend.

Lastly, Dean thinks that Cas is worth it. 

He’ll quit his job to avoid the scandal. He’ll ignore John Winchester rolling over in his grave about his son dating a man. He’ll endure Meg’s taunts and Sam’s doe eyes. Because if Cas wants him, Dean is prepared to give him everything. He’s worth it.

And that’s the thought that makes Dean panic more than anything.

Dean finds his way to the hotel bar in a haze. He sips on a single glass of whiskey for the better part of an hour, enduring concerned glances from the bartender. A young woman in a button down blouse and a pencil skirt flirts with him, but gives up after getting only vague responses and half-hearted smiles in response to her attempts at conversation.

_ I’m having an identity crisis _ , Dean realizes as he stares down at the amber liquid in his glass.  _ This is what a mental breakdown feels like _ . It’s somehow even more world-changing than the aftermath of the scandal with Lisa.

Dean loses track of how long he sits at the bar, but it must be a few hours, at least, because suddenly there’s an unexpected body sliding onto the stool next to him and when he looks over he recognizes the trenchcoat and the muss of hair. Cas signals the bartender that he’ll have the same drink Dean is nursing.

“I thought I might find you here,” Cas rumbles, his eyes tracing the whorls of wood in the bar counter.

“How was dinner?” Dean asks, his brain stalling on what else to say. Castiel makes a face.

“The company was… less than enjoyable,” he admits, “but I think it went well, regardless.”

The bartender places a glass in front of Cas, and he looks down into it without drinking.

“I apologize for making you uncomfortable,” Cas finally says. Dean looks up at him, startled. 

“Cas -” he starts, but Castiel looks up at him and the expression on his face effectively cuts off Dean’s words.

“No, Dean. I shouldn’t have -” he sighs deeply. “I know what I told you before, and how I reacted. I’m sure you have no interest in hearing about my feelings, or in returning them now that you’ve had some time to reevaluate. I value our friendship, so please don’t -”

“Cas, shut up.” 

“You’re freaking out. I know you’re not gay, I was inappropriate -”

“Shut. Up.” Castiel snaps his jaw shut and focuses on Dean’s face. Dean runs a hand through his hair and takes a breath. “Yeah, I’m freaking out. But not because you’re gay, or because you made me uncomfortable, or whatever. I’m freaking out because I want you so bad I can barely breathe, and given my track record with relationships that’s terrifying as hell.”

Dean tries to read the expression on Castiel’s face as they stare silently at each other, but he fails. Cas’ face is a mask. His throat works a few times.

“What?” Cas finally whispers. 

“You’re worth it.”

“I’m what?”

“Ok, yeah, I’m not gay, or I didn’t think so, anyway, and I’m kind of having an identity crisis, and I’m worried about dragging you down and ruining your career, and all that, but you’re worth it. You’re dorky and weird and gorgeous, and if you really do like me back, I will wade through all of that shit to have you, because you’re worth it.”

“Dean.” It seems to be the only word that Cas can manage to choke out. His throat works silently a few times, but otherwise he just silently studies Dean’s face. Dean’s heart thuds in his chest, and he can feel his palms sweating and his skin burning. “I’m not,” Cas finally rasps.

Dean closes his eyes as his stomach lurches. He blinks a few times, and then catches Castiel’s sad, helpless expression. His heart melts. He reaches out and lays his hand on top of one of Cas’.

“Hey. Remember what you told me the first time we met? You said everyone deserves a second chance. Even if they think they don’t deserve it.” Green eyes stare into blue. Cas’ hand twitches and he tentatively catches hold of Dean’s fingers.

“You brought me pie,” Cas says. Dean’s eyebrows furrow.

“Uh. Yeah?”

“You brought me twelve different kinds of pie and you made me eat all of them.”

“Yup. Last night.”

“Dean Winchester, you are so strange, and kind, and brave, and wonderful, and I don’t deserve you at all. I was never meant to have someone like you. It’s not -”

“If you dare say it’s not in your specs, so help me, I will smack you upside the head. How many times do I have to say that you’re not a piece of paper before it sinks into your thick skull?”

“As many times as I have to tell you you’re not a bust, no matter what you father said.”

The both fall silent again, processing each other’s words, and drinking in each other’s presence. 

“I quit,” Dean says. Cas jerks and frowns.

“You - what?”

“I quit. My job. I don’t work for you anymore.”

“Dean. You don’t. You don’t want to work with me?”

“I don’t want to work  _ for _ you. What happened with Lisa - I’m not gonna let that happen to you. I’m not going to see anymore headlines about the politician having an affair with a staffer. I’m not ruining your rep like that and dragging you down with me.” 

“That’s not - you don’t have to do that. Unless you want to, of course, but I don’t want to lose you, and we’ll find a way to make it work. If you want to.”

“‘Course I  _ want _ to, don’t know who else would hire me, anyway. But I’m not going to do that to you.”

Cas sighs and scowls at Dean. “You are brilliant and talented and anyone would be lucky to have you on their staff. But seeing as how I’m rather inept at politics, I would like to keep you on mine, selfish as that is.”

They fall into staring at each other again. Dean figures it’s because they’ve had so much practice at it.

“Cas, can I kiss you?”

Cas swallows. “I - yes. Wait. No,” he eyes the few bar patrons around them. “Let’s go somewhere more private,” he suggests. Dean smiles, for the first time since Cas sat down next to him. Castiel smiles back, and not for the first time, Dean thinks his shy smile is like the sun rising, warm and bright and wonderful.

“Thought you weren’t worried about what people would say,” Dean teases. Cas squints, and his head tilts, the  _ you clearly weren’t listening to me _ tilt.

“I said we would work it out, not that I unconcerned. It would be prudent to be discreet, for both of our sakes.”

Dean chuckles. “I’m not arguing. But I do think I’m going to combust if we stay here staring at each other and not touching for much longer.”

Cas stands and tugs his hand, their fingers still loosely intertwined. 

“Then let’s go.”

Cas’ hand slips out of his grasp as they stumble towards the elevators, hoping they don’t look too much like they’re practically falling over themselves to get somewhere they can be alone. A large group of tourists squeeze into the elevator with them, and Dean and Cas are pushed to opposite sides of the elevator. They try and hold each other’s eyes over the top of the neon baseball cap of the white-haired grandmother nagging her son and his family about not wearing enough sunscreen. It feels like they stop at every floor on the way up, the ride taking interminably long.

Dean grabs Cas’ wrist the instant the doors slide open on their floor and drags him down the hallway. Cas fumbles with the keycard to open the door of his room. Dean pushes him through the doorway as soon as it opens, and the door snaps shut behind them with a satisfying click.

Dean tugs Cas forward and wraps his arms loosely around the smaller man’s waist. Cas’ breath hitches and he looks up at Dean with all his usual intensity. He slides his hands up to rest on Dean’s chest.

“Cas, can I kiss you?” Dean breathes again.

“Yes.”

Dean leans forward, just one inch, so close, and captures Cas’ lips with his own.

It’s so easy. Dean closes his eyes and sighs, tightening his arms to pull Castiel’s warm body closer. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, fireworks, or lightning, or even disappointment or disgust, maybe. This isn’t any of those things. This is so easy, and simple, and right, like two puzzle pieces falling into place. Like there’s never been anything else.

Cas’ hands slide up around his neck, his fingers scratching idly through the hair at the base of Dean’s skull. He kisses lazily, letting Dean do the work. Dean can feel the soft rise and fall of his chest and the tickle of warm air against his cheek as Cas breathes in and out through his nose. He can taste the hint of alcohol from the few sips of the drink that Cas took at the bar, and perhaps a spicy remnant of whatever he ate for dinner. And  _ Cas _ . His lips are smooth and soft and dry, his tongue gentle as it sweeps into Dean’s mouth.

They kiss, and kiss, and kiss. After a few seconds, or maybe hours, Dean breaks the kiss for a breathless pause.

“Don’t stop,” Cas pleads in a whisper against his lips, and Dean is helpless to refuse. Dean relishes the warmth of Cas pressed against him, the smell of his hair, the taste of his skin, the quiet, content little noises that slip out of his throat. Dean breaks away again, shaking with silent laughter as he realizes they’re still standing just inside the door, unmoving, unable to break away from each other. He drops his forehead onto Cas’ shoulder.

“Meg is going to be insufferable,” Dean chuckles into Cas’ neck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *squeals*


	13. Sunshine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that tooth-rotting fluff tag up there? Here it is.
> 
> I swear this chapter was written and titled months before last weeks episode.

Dean wakes with a groan and a stripe of sunlight across his face. He stretches uncomfortably and rolls his head, trying to work out the kink in his neck. He’s still wearing his clothes from the night before, sans shoes, and lying half propped up on a ridiculous number of firm pillows on top of the ugly hotel bedspread. His teeth feel fuzzy and his breath is probably hideous. He glances over at the clock on the bedside table. There’s still about ten minutes or so before the alarm on his phone goes off, but there’s really no point in trying to go back to sleep.

He half rolls over to examine the lump under the covers to his left. A messy mop of brown hair is the only thing he can see poking out from under the sheets. Dean rolls his eyes and scoots over so he can curl up around the sleeping form. Cas is facing away from him, so he wraps an arm around the slim waist he can feel under the blankets, snuggles his chest up to Cas’ back, and pushes his nose into the hair at the back of his head.

“Rise and shine, Cas,” Dean mumbles. The lump in his arms squirms and elbows him in the ribs. “Cas,” Dean sing-songs.

“Go ‘way,” Cas grunts into his pillow. Dean chuckles.

“C’mon sunshine, time to get up.”

“Dean, I’m sleeping.”

“No, you’re whining at me. Clearly not asleep,” Dean teases. Cas growls threateningly and tries to squirm out of Dean’s arms. Dean tightens his arm and nuzzles the back of Cas’ neck. “Promise to make it worth your while if you get up.”

“You’re going to shower, and brush your teeth, and bring me coffee?” Cas mutters. Dean rolls his eyes again.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of an asshole in the morning?”

“Yes. Pretty much everyone I know. Including you. On multiple occasions.”

“Yeah, well, thought maybe it would be different when I woke up next to you after making out most of the night.”

Castiel twists around so he can scowl at Dean’s face instead of into the pillow. 

“Ok, fine, I’ll go clean up and bring you coffee, asshole,” Dean chuckles. He moves to push himself away from Cas, but the other man flails to free an arm from the covers and grab hold of Dean’s shoulder to pull him back down onto the bed.

“No. You’re warm,” Cas protests, snaking his arm around Dean’s back and wriggling closer.

“Says the man who, apparently, got up to climb under the covers after I passed out last night and just left me on top.”

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” 

Cas pushes his nose into the hollow between Dean’s collarbones and tightens his grip. He’s warm and heavy with sleep, and Dean is tempted to climb under the blankets with him and spend the rest of the day locked in each other’s arms. Unfortunately, Dean has more willpower than that.

“We’ve got to check out of the hotel, and there’s one more meeting before we drive back to Chicago,” Dean groans, and prys himself away from Cas, who moans and pushes his face into a pillow. “I’m gonna go back to my room and clean up. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Don’t forget to brush your teeth so we can make out again before breakfast,” Cas mumbles, his voice partially muffled by the pillow. Dean grins.

“Same goes for you. Think you have to get out of bed for that, though.”

Cas growls and burrows under the covers. Dean shakes his head and reluctantly makes his way to the door, snagging Cas’ extra room key from the desk on his way out. Dean glances over the untouched bed in his room as he rummages through his suitcase for clean underwear and prepares for his inevitable freak out. 

He doesn’t freak out. He showers and grins like a fool as he scrubs shampoo into his hair and thinks about Cas. They had kissed for hours last night, pawing at each other desperately, but neither one ready to take the plunge for more. Every few minutes they would pause for breath and agree that they should stop, get some sleep, only to fall hungrily back on each other’s lips in the same breath. Eventually Dean had passed out on the bed, still lazily pressing kisses to whatever part of Cas he could reach until sleep dragged him away.

Dean hums happily under the spray of warm water as he recalls the sensation of Cas’ taut, muscled body pressed against his own, the sound of his quiet noises of contentment, the smell of soap and sweat. He runs his palms over his damp skin, chasing the heat burning through him. He’s sure he’s never felt this way before in his life; with Cassie he felt empty and unfulfilled, with Lisa he felt shame. Now all he feels is warmth and excitement that fills him to overflowing.

He brushes his teeth and still doesn’t freak out, anticipating the taste of Cas on his tongue. He dresses in jeans and a t-shirt since he doesn’t have to attend Cas’ morning meeting, and he’d rather not wear business casual on the three-hour drive back to Chicago. He fiddles with the coffee machine in his room, saving himself the trip downstairs and giving Cas some extra time to, hopefully, drag himself out of bed. 

Dean juggles two mugs of steaming coffee as he tries to get the key card to unlock the door to Cas’ room. The lock beeps stubbornly several times and Dean curses technology and grumbles that the cheap motels he usually frequents have actual  _ keys _ , until the lock finally clicks and he manages to struggle into the room without spilling any coffee. The shower is running, and a spike of heat races under his skin at the thought of a very wet, very naked Castiel just a few feet away. He takes a gulp of coffee, scalding his tongue and effectively distracting himself from that threateningly appealing image. 

“Cas, I brought coffee,” Dean calls as soon as he hears the water stop running, and hopefully Cas will take the hint and not emerge completely sans clothing from the bathroom. If that happens, Dean’s not sure that Castiel is going to make it to his morning meeting. Cas is, in fact, wearing clothing, but it consists of nothing but a pair of plain white boxer shorts, and Dean groans loudly with the effort of self restraint. He hooks an arm around Cas’ bare waist and pulls him in close. 

“You’re trying to kill me,” Dean grumbles before leaning forward to capture Cas’ lips. His breath is minty fresh, Dean notices, smiling slightly into the kiss. Cas squints at him when they break apart.

“I was going to ask where my coffee was,” Cas admits, “but this is also good.”

“You’re dripping on me,” Dean observes, feeling fat drops of water fall from Cas’ wet hair onto his hands and arms.

“Hm,” Cas hums in agreement. “If your clothes get wet, you’ll probably have to take them off to dry.”

Dean groans again and leans in for another kiss.

“Coffee,” Cas demands when they break away from each other again.

“Thought you said this was good.”

“It would be better if I was actually awake.”

Dean scowls and leans away to pluck Castiel’s mug off coffee off the desk, places it in his hands, then loosely wraps his arms back around his waist. Cas breathes in the steam with a contented sigh, and Dean watches his lips as he takes a grateful sip of the hot liquid. 

“What time is it?” Dean asks, as he doesn’t want to let go of Cas to check his watch, and can’t see the clock behind him. Cas cranes his neck to see over Dean’s shoulder.

“7:45.”

“Your meeting is at 9:30,” Dean recalls.

“I’ll cancel.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Your shirt is getting wet.”

“Looks like the coffee is working,” Dean chuckles at the sly look in Cas’ eyes. Castiel hums and takes another large gulp before setting his mug back down on the desk and practically attacking Dean’s lips.

“Yes. Much better.”

Dean laughs and runs his fingers through Castiel’s still dripping hair. Cas closes his eyes and leans into his touch.

“Who would have thought,” Dean wonders quietly to himself, marveling at the man practically purring in his arms, “you and me.”

“Meg,” Cas states without opening his eyes. “Sam. Crowley, apparently. Perhaps Michael.”

“That was rhetorical.” 

“Not me.” Castiel opens his eyes and his gaze bores into Dean’s. “I didn’t think it was possible. For you to feel this way about me. For me to feel this way about anyone.”

“Me either,” Dean admits. He leans forward and brushes his lips against Cas’, mumbling his words against them. “I’m glad we were wrong.”

They don’t make it to breakfast. Castiel kisses with a passion and intensity that Dean should have anticipated, based on Cas’ personality, but somehow still surprises him. Cas manages to wrangle the shirt off Dean’s body without him noticing, and his skin jumps at the sensation of bare skin pressed together.

“You were inappropriately dressed,” Cas explains when he pauses briefly to admire Dean’s naked torso.

“Uh huh,” Dean rolls his eyes indulgently. He feels hot, despite being half naked in the chill hotel air conditioning. Castiel is a long, lean line of heat wrapping around him again, the planes and angles and smooth hardness of his body a heady change from the soft curves of the women Dean’s been with before. He groans and smooths his palms down the muscles of Cas’ bare back, dipping his fingers under the waistband of his boxers to explore the gentle curve of his ass.

“Dean,” Cas gasps, clamping his hands around either side of Dean’s jaw to hold him steady for a thorough kiss.

“Is this ok?” Dean pants when Cas finally breaks for air.

“Yes,” Castiel snaps testily, his head tilt betraying his thoughts on the stupidity of that question. Then Cas freezes and his eyes flicker nervously back and forth between Dean’s. “I mean… is it?”

“Yes,” Dean agrees, sliding his hands down so he can grip Cas’ ass cheeks firmly and pull their hips together, a shudder rocking him head to toe when he feels the hard line of Cas’ arousal press into his own. He nuzzles at Cas’ neck as Cas clutches desperately at him. “Surprisingly, I’m not freaking out about this, so don’t you go freaking out and ruining it.”

“Why not?”

“Why not ruin it? Thought that would be kind of obvious.”

“No, why aren’t you freaking out?” Cas grips Dean’s hair gently to pull his lips away from their suction on his neck. Castiel’s eyes are solemn and curious, despite their lust blown pupils. Dean sighs.

“Dunno. Maybe ‘cause I’ve already been freaking out about it for weeks and I’ve got it out of my system? Or maybe it’s just you. I don’t have a clue, Cas, I just know that I want you and if you’re ok with it, then I’m ok with it.”

Castiel gazes at him steadily with that intense blue stare, lifting a hand and tracing his fingers over the line of Dean’s cheekbone, his jaw, running a thumb across his kiss swollen lips.

“I didn’t see you before,” he whispers, his voice a little hoarse. “I knew you would never think of me like that, so it never even crossed my mind to consider you - like that. Like this.”

“You really never checked out my fine ass?” Dean teases, resuming his exploration of Cas’ neck and jawline with his lips.

“Dean.”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I know you’re clueless. ‘S why you hired me, right?”

“ _ Dean _ .” Cas taps the back of Dean’s head in an affectionate parody of a smack. Dean chuckles, his breath puffing against Cas’ skin. “You are insufferable.”

“Hey. Looks like you’re suffering me just fine.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow dangerously, and Dean swoops in to cut off his ire with a kiss. Cas manhandles him onto the bed. Dean catches a glimpse of the glowing numbers on the clock next to the bed as a push sends him sprawling onto the mattress.

“Cas,” Dean gasps as the man in question explores his collarbones with his teeth and tongue. “You’re gonna be late for your meeting.”

“I. Really. Wish. You. Were. Not. So. Good. At. Your. Job,” Castiel growls, interspersing his words between kisses that trailed down Dean’s chest. “I’m reconsidering accepting your resignation,” he adds from somewhere in the vicinity of Dean’s navel. Dean chokes out a noise that someone who didn’t know better might describe as a squeak.

“Cas,” Dean protests weakly. “C’mon, y’gotta - What about - But the -  _ Cas _ .”

“Insufferable,” Cas sighs, leaning his chin on Dean’s ribs. Dean smooths his fingers across the damp, but no longer dripping, strands of Cas’ hair.

“I’ll make it up to you when we get home,” Dean offers, sending stern thoughts towards his own groin area, which is just as reluctant as Castiel to pause their current activities. Castiel’s eyes stare through him. 

Dean tries not to pout when Castiel climbs off him and snatches his coffee from where it had been abandoned on the desk. Castiel takes a large swallow and eyes Dean over the rim of the mug.

“I am going to take a cold shower,” Cas informs him evenly, “but I cannot make any guarantee of maintaining my composure if you are still here when I am done.”

“Got it, boss,” Dean salutes ironically, scrambling off the bed and wincing as he attempts to subtly adjust himself inside his too-snug jeans.

“And, Dean,” Cas adds as Dean pulls his t-shirt over his head, “I intend to make sure you keep that promise.”

Dean swallows dryly at the predatory look in Cas’ infinite blue eyes. Castiel gulps down more of his coffee and disappears back into the bathroom. Dean makes a pitiful noise and escapes the room before his libido gets the better of him and ruins Cas’ career.

~~

“I just don’t understand the appeal of sitting motionless in a vehicle for hours on end when you could arrive at your destination in less than half the time using alternate modes of transportation,” Cas argues after about half an hour on the road.

“If you keep talking shit about my baby, I will leave your ass on the side of the road and make you walk home,” Dean threatens.

“The vehicle itself is practically a work of art, I acknowledge that, but for practical purposes -”

“ _ Cas _ .”

“I just -”

“It’s not always about getting from point A to point B as fast as possible,” Dean sighs. “It’s about, you know, seeing the scenery change little by little every mile you go. About feeling the rumble of the road under your wheels. Stopping in little podunk towns and soaking up the local color. Rolling down the windows and feeling the wind in your hair. You don’t get any of that trapped in a skinny metal tube a thousand feet in the air.”

“Thirty to forty thousand,” Cas corrects.

“What?”

“The typical commercial airliner flies at a cruising altitude of approximately thirty to forty thousand feet.”

“Ok, there’s the other reason why you should never,  _ ever _ set foot in one of those flying death traps. People aren’t meant to be that far off the ground,” Dean shudders at the thought. Castiel shakes his head.

“We may just have to agree to disagree,” he states.

“Hey, I changed your mind about the pie, I’ll get you to come around about the driving, too. Just you wait and see,” Dean promises, shaking a finger at his passenger. Cas just sniffs doubtfully.

The rest of the drive passes in relative smoothness, alternating between pleasant conversation and comfortable silences that Dean fills with the sweet chords of classic rock blasting from the cassette player while Cas observes the scenery flashing past. The time passes easily, like it always does in Cas’ presence, and the flat farmland eases into suburbs, then city, the high rises of downtown Chicago rising up around them in a concrete and metal forest. It’s early afternoon, and Cas asks to stop by the office, earning a groan from Dean.

“Really? You sit in a car for hours and you don’t want to go home, or eat lunch, or even take a walk? You want to go to work?”

“Had I travelled by air, I would have already arrived several hours ago, and I would have been able to work during my commute, as well,” Castiel points out. Dean glowers at him.

“You’re not scoring any points for yourself, here,” Dean grumbles.

“Just to check in, I promise. Then you can take me home.” Dean can hear the extra weight behind the words and he shuts up and does what Cas wants.

He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. 

“OH MY GOD,” Meg shrieks the instant they walk through the door of the office. Dean and Castiel both freeze.

“What the hell, Meg? No, ‘hey, good to see you, welcome back’?” Dean says.

“Oh. My. God,” Meg gasps again, quieter, but with no less intensity.

“Good afternoon, Meg,” Castiel greets her, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Cheryl,” he adds, nodding at the receptionist, watching curiously from behind her desk. Meg catches her breath and walks up to them, crossing her arms over her chest and levelling them with a stare that rivals Castiel’s.

“You guys totally hooked up,” Meg states, staring down first Cas, then Dean. Cheryl gasps from somewhere behind her.

“What the hell would make you think  _ that _ ?” Dean sneers, crossing his own arms and glaring back.

“Don’t even try that shit with me, Winchester. I have a sixth sense, and you two are practically oozing new boy-toys all over the place.”

“Meg,” Cas warns wearily.

“Nuh-uh, Clarence, I’m not going anywhere until I get an explanation as to how pretty boy here got his meaty paws on your junk.”

“We may have come to an understanding after some discussion,” Cas hedges. Meg rolls her eyes.

“You.” Meg points a perfectly manicured claw at Dean. “Explain.”

“None of your business,” Dean answers.

“Aw, c’mon. Back me up here, Cheryl,” Meg whirls on the fellow female in the room. Cheryl shrinks slightly in her seat.

“You guys are kind of,” Cheryl makes a vague gesture with her hands, shrugging apologetically at the two men. “Like… glowy?”

“Shit,” Dean curses.

“Is it that obvious?” Cas frowns.

“No,” Meg admits. “But we see you every goddamn day. So you ‘fessing up, then?”

Cas looks at Dean, who shrugs in irritated helplessness.

“Dean and I are romantically involved,” Castiel confesses, narrowing his eyes and fixing both Meg and Cheryl with an impressively intimidating glare, even for him, “and we would like to keep this fact  _ private  _ until we devise an appropriate plan for presenting this relationship to the general public, given our respective positions and - ah - history.”

Cheryl bobs her head up and down rapidly to indicate her understanding. Meg just smirks.

“So did Babyface let you stick your angel sword in his butt?” Meg asks with a leer. Cheryl chokes, Cas’ face is sheer horror, and Dean groans.

“Ok, we checked in, now we’re checking out. Come on, Cas,” Dean grabs Castiel by the sleeve and hauls him towards the door. “See you ladies on Monday.”

Meg cackles as the door slams shut behind them.

“Dean, tomorrow is Friday. The office is open,” Castiel reminds Dean, while allowing himself to be lead back to the Impala.

“You’re taking a long weekend,” Dean informs him. Cas doesn’t argue. He stays suspiciously silent until they are back in the car and headed towards his condo.

“So are you going to let me stick my sword in your butt?” Castiel asks, completely deadpan, while Dean swerves and narrowly avoids running over a woman walking a pair of shih tzus across the crosswalk. Cas blinks innocently at him.

“You and Meg deserve each other,” Dean grumbles, clutching the steering wheel and avoiding the big blue eyes next to him. He also avoids answering the question.

~~

Dean isn’t sure why he half expected the interior of Castiel’s condo to be some kind of stiff, formal, elitist penthouse suite when none of those words even remotely applied to Cas; not the real Cas, at least. The condo definitely reflects the real Cas, and Dean is delighted.

The walls are painted in jewel-bright colors lit up by the afternoon sun streaming in from the large windows with a dizzying view of the Chicago skyline. There are only the bare minimum pieces of furniture, brutally practical, but also comfortable and well worn. Castiel crosses the main living room to throw open a pair of sliding glass doors opening onto a large balcony nearly overflowing with potted plants. 

Dean’s eyes are soft as he watches Cas take in a deep breath of fresh air, his posture relaxed, the glow of a smile in his eyes, the sunlight tinting his skin slightly orange. Castiel holds out a hand towards him, and Dean takes a tentative step forward. He allows Castiel to interlace their fingers, press their palms together, and slowly draw Dean towards him, hooking his free arm around Dean’s waist when he’s close enough and pulling him into his side. Dean releases Cas’ hand so he can wrap both arms around Castiel’s torso and cling as he examines the view from far too many stories up.

Dean can feel, rather than hear, Cas’ soft huff of amusement at his lack of enthusiasm over their current altitude, and Dean squeezes his arms tightly in retaliation. Castiel turns his head to look at Dean, his eyes trailing over every inch of his face. Dean in turn studies the slight imperfections of Cas’ skin, the variation of shades of blue in his eyes, the tiny cracks in his dry lips. Dean lifts a hand and traces over the arch of Castiel’s eyebrow, where a few stray hairs are growing the wrong direction. He smiles.

“What?” Cas whispers as his gaze flickers over Dean’s expression.

“You’re perfect,” Dean answers, then leans forward to capture Cas’ lips in a kiss. 

Castiel turns in his arms, pulling tighter with the hand around Dean’s waist and lifting the other to thread his fingers through the short hair at the nape of Dean’s neck. His dry lips are surprisingly soft and he nips tenderly at Dean’s bottom lip.

“I believe,” Cas whispers, his breath wet and hot against Dean’s mouth, “that I was promised reparations for my cold shower this morning.”

Dean shudders, a spike of heat racing from his groin out to his extremities. 

“Cas, I -” Dean starts, and stops. Castiel pulls back a few inches to study Dean’s face with concern. 

“This is too much. I’m sorry, Dean, I should know better,” Cas starts to apologize, his eyes drifting down towards the floor, his hands slipping away from Dean’s body. Dean grips his hips to stop him from pulling away.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here,” Dean tells him, his pupils widening further as he smiles at his lover. Dean leans forward, pressing his cheek onto Castiel’s, his lips brushing the shell of Cas’ ear as he breaths, “you have to teach me. Tell me how to make you feel good.”

A pathetic gulp escapes from Castiel’s throat. He gently pries Dean’s fingers off his hip bones and takes hold of his wrists to lead him towards the bedroom. Dean chuckles when Cas flicks on a small table lamp and the warm glow illuminates walls painted in a muted shade of soft green, and a deep forest green quilt covering the king sized bed. 

“Meg wasn’t kidding about the green thing, huh,” Dean grins. Castiel scowls at him, stopping in his tracks and clamping his hands around Dean’s face to stop him as well. Cas’ intense stare bores into Dean’s eyes.

“Green is my favorite color,” Cas declares, his eyes never leaving Dean’s. Dean bites his lip, a warm feeling that he doesn’t care to define at the moment twisting in his gut. Castiel’s head tilts just a little to the left, a head tilt that Dean has never seen before, but can still identify immediately. Another surge of heat races through Dean’s core and his dick is absolutely aching now.

“Dean Winchester,” Cas says solemnly, “I would very much like to have sex with you now.”

“Oh dear god, yes, please,” Dean moans, and Cas kisses him.

They shed their clothes, and Dean's breath stutters to a stop when he gets his first real look at Cas, all of him, miles of bare skin, trails of dark hair, muscles that ripple with his movement, an absolute perfect cock curving up in arousal. Cas' eyes slide over Dean's naked body, their usual intensity somehow turned up to another level. Dean remembers feeling intimidated by those impossibly blue eyes and their laser focus a few short months ago, but he doesn't even feel shy now that he's laid bare in front of those eyes. Cas is familiar and beloved and Dean feels almost cradled by the heat of his gaze.

Castiel guides him down onto the bed, leaning over him and lowering his hips so their cocks brush in a touch that sends lightning racing over Dean's skin and pulls a moan from his throat.

"Teach me," Dean begs again. Cas leans down for a kiss, his tongue working into Dean's mouth, his breath mingling hot and steamy with Dean's own.

"You already know kissing," Cas breathes when they break apart. He reaches around to where Dean's palm is plastered against his back, and nudges the hand down towards the curve of his ass. "Let's work on touching."

Cas's hands explore every inch of Dean's body, and Dean responds in kind. He mimics Cas' firm, determined pressure against his skin, and when Cas reaches down to palm Dean's cock, he does the same, gently gripping Castiel's hard length. He strokes in time with Cas, his chest heaving, his eyes sinking shut as he surrenders to the sensation.

"You learn quickly," Cas growls against his cheek.

"I have a good teacher," Dean sighs. "What next?"

Castiel tilts his head as he stares down at the man below him, and Dean is reminded of a predatory bird examining its prey. He says nothing this time, only pulls his hand away from Dean and instead slides down the bed, pushing Dean's knees apart to kneel between them. He leans his chin on Dean's thigh and Dean swears his heart is going to stop, or maybe explode out of his chest as he feels the breeze of Castiel's breath against his cock. Cas' eyes never leave his face as his tongue darts out to place a wet stripe along the underside of Dean's erection. Dean gasps. Cas' lips mouth over him, slickening his dick and pulling noises from his throat that he didn't know he could make. It takes an embarrassingly short time after Cas seals his mouth around Dean's length and slides his head up and down, his hand following and tugging at what his mouth can't quite reach, before Dean is crying out, arching up, and coming down Cas' throat and across his face.

Cas wipes the streaks of white from his chin and cheeks, rolling onto his back and using the slick of Dean's come as lube as he fists his own dick. Dean is helplessly limp for several moments after his orgasm, until the wet sound of Cas' hand over his dick and the gasp of his breath rouses him to movement. He sits up and climbs over Cas, knocking his hand away from his erection and gripping it with his own.

"My turn," Dean says, his voice low and rough with arousal.

He presses a kiss to the tip of Cas dick, tasting sweat and pre-come, breathing in the musky scent of Cas. He steadies his hand around the base of Cas' cock and tentatively slides his lips around the head. He's uncertain and unpracticed with his first few awkward slurps around Cas' length, but Cas babbles encouragement and Dean determinedly sucks and bobs his head until he is confidently sliding Cas as far into his willing mouth as he can take. He's not prepared to swallow when Cas comes, and semen drips out of his lips and down his chin. Cas grabs onto his shoulder and pulls him up, wiping come off his face and kissing him thoroughly. 

Dean finds his t-shirt from somewhere off the floor and carefully cleans the rest of the come off their weary bodies. Then Castiel pulls Dean roughly towards him, cradling Dean's back to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around Dean's ribs, and pressing his nose into the back of Dean's neck. Dean melts into the embrace and grasps Cas' hands to his chest.

Dean can feel the movement of Cas' ribs as he breathes deeply, in and out. They are quiet and still, peaceful, close, intimate in a way that Dean doesn't know if he has ever experienced. There's no attempt at conversation, no pulling away, no finality to their encounter. Their connection just continues on and on, long after their orgams.

A happiness and contentment that's almost painful beats in Dean's chest. He pulls Cas' arms tighter around him as he closes his eyes and allows himself to slide into a deep and joyous sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not intend for this fic to have anything even close to smut. But then they just... started taking their clothes off...
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://jailikechai.tumblr.com)


	14. Turn It Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's starting to figure their shit out. Finally.

It’s so easy. That’s the only way Dean can describe what it’s like to be with Cas. Easy. No regrets, no second thoughts, no more panicking or identity crises. Not that ‘easy’ and ‘uncomplicated’ are the same thing, because this thing between them is going to get complicated as hell when they leave the bedroom and stand out there together in front of the rest of the world. But kissing Cas is easy. Lying naked in bed with their legs tangled together and their arms wrapped around each other is easy. Listening to Cas’ deep, slow, sleepy breathing and feeling the steady beat of his heart is easy. Feeling that undefined warmth that lights Dean up from the inside out whenever he is around Cas is easy.

Castiel’s sleeping body is heavy in Dean’s arms, and he is snoring quietly. Dean sighs and rests his chin on the top of Cas’ skull, closing his eyes and concentrating on the warm puff of Cas’ breath against his neck. Dean is just about to join Cas in drifting back into sleep, when his phone rings and jolts him back to wakefulness. Dean carefully extracts an arm from Cas’ clinging grip and twists around to snag his phone off the bedside table. Sam.

“Hello?” Dean answers groggily, squirming as Cas stops snoring and instead tightens his grip around Dean’s waist threateningly. 

“Hey, Dean,” Sam’s voice is entirely too loud for whatever hour of the morning it is right now.

“Ugh. Not all of us are morning glories, Sammy, what the hell,” Dean groans, freeing his other arm from underneath Cas.

“It’s nine o’clock on a Friday, Dean, I figured you’d be at work,” Sam informs him dryly. Dean winces at the revelation of the time.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “Do you need to call Cas and tell him you’re running late? I can call back in a few.”

“No, uh -” Dean looks down at the man curled around him, practically radiating morning grumpiness, “- Cas already knows I’m not going into work today.”

At the sound of his name, Castiel tips his chin up so he can crack one eye open and glare at Dean, conveying the message of,  _ shut the fuck up so I can go back to sleep, _ very clearly without having to say a word. Dean rolls his eyes.

“You’re not going in at all? Did something happen?” Sam sounds concerned now. Dean winces again, not quite ready to face Sam’s gloating over his new relationship status. 

“Uh. Not… exactly…” Dean hedges. Something sharp pinches his side, and judging by Cas’ squint, it’s probably his fingernails. “Ow! Jesus, Cas!” 

There’s a loud silence from the other end of the phone.

“Are you… with Cas? Right now?” Sam questions, his voice tense with something Dean can’t quite identify over the phone.

“Uh,” he grunts eloquently in response.

“Holy shit! I knew it! I fucking knew it!” Sam practically screeches, and his increase in volume causes Castiel’s glare of doom to transfer over to the phone. Cas releases his death grip on Dean’s ribs with one hand and snatches the phone.

“Dean will return your call later,” Castiel grates, his voice only barely understandable in its sleep induced roughness. Dean can hear Sam crowing with delighted laughter as Cas ends the call and tosses the phone off the other end of the bed.

“Hey!” Dean protests. Castiel only responds by wrapping both arms securely back around Dean’s torso, wiggling his hips in tighter, and tucking his head back underneath Dean’s chin. “Asshole,” Dean murmurs fondly, nosing at Cas’ hair and breathing in his scent. He can feel Cas huff an offended breath. Dean closes his eyes and drapes his arms around Cas, who slowly relaxes as his breath evens off again in sleep. Dean smiles and it’s easy to let the rhythm of Cas’ breathing to lull him back to sleep.

When Dean drifts back to wakefulness, the bed is empty and he can hear the sound of a shower running. He stretches, rolling his body and appreciating the softness of Cas’ sheets and the plushness of his mattress. He wiggles so he can dangle an arm off the edge of the bed and search for his phone on the floor.

Sam has texted nine different variations of smug, and Meg contributed a few of her own overnight. Dean groans. He maneuvers himself back to the center of the bed and hits Sam’s name on his speed dial.

“I fucking knew it,” Sam’s voice crows after only a single ring.

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean growls. “No one needs you rubbing your smug all over the place.”

“I’m happy for you, dude,” Sam says and Dean can hear his grin.

“Yeah,” he snaps gruffly. “Thanks,” he adds after a brief pause.

“So how’d it happen? Did you guys have hot hotel sex in Springfield? Shit, on second thought, don’t answer that. I really, really don’t need to hear any details about your sex life.”

“Just because I happen to enjoy dick now doesn’t mean I’m suddenly a girl. This is not chick flick sharing and caring time, bitch,” Dean snorts.

“Yeah, good to know that turning gay hasn’t hurt your precious machismo, jerk.”

“Fuck you. Is there an actual reason you called earlier or did you just miss the sweet sound of my voice?”

Dean hears the water shut off in the bathroom, and a moment later a shower-damp Cas wrapped in a clean, white towel appears in the bedroom. Dean’s face lights up at the sight.

“Oh, right,” Sam is saying over the phone. “I bought a bus ticket for next Saturday to come back to Chicago, I think I’ll be ready to go back to the clinic.”

Dean’s concentration on his brother’s voice lags as Cas sits down next to him on the bed and plants a wet, sloppy kiss on his cheek.

“Um. Ok. That’s great,” Dean says absently into the phone, eyes roving hungrily over the parts of Cas’ naked body that are currently visible.

“Is Cas right there?” Sam says after a brief pause.

“What? Why?” Dean huffs, trailing a finger lazily from the corner of Cas’ jaw, down the line of his throat, over his sternum and down, down, down -

“I can practically hear you slobbering over the phone. Gross, Dean. You have a whole week to be freaky with your new boyfriend, so get it out of your system before I get back.”

Dean grunts his acquiescence, concentrating on the way Cas’ skin shivers when he touches  _ just right _ , and Sam makes a displeased gagging noise.

“Great. Bye, Dean,” Sam says. “Bye, Cas,” he adds, a little louder. Dean hits the end call button and Cas gently removes the phone from his hands and sets it on the bedside table.

“Good morning,” Dean grins as Cas climbs over him and straddles his hips, proving that he is wearing absolutely nothing under that towel, and reminding Dean that he is still absolutely naked from last night. Castiel slides his fingers into Dean’s hair and grips gently as he guides Dean’s face up for a gentle kiss.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean makes an undignified noise and chases Castiel’s lips while shamelessly thrusting his hips up to grind against Cas’. Cas gasps as their dicks brush together.

“I’ve told you you’re kind of an asshole in the morning, right?” Dean asks, breathless, as he grips Cas’ hip bones and pulls his pelvis down firmly against his own.

“It may have come up before,” Cas admits, tugging the towel away from his waist and tossing it to the side, where it catches on the edge of the bed, half hanging onto the floor. He shifts, repositioning his seat so he can take them both in hand.

“You’re also dripping on me again,” Dean groans as a fat drop of water rolls off Castiel’s hair and onto his face at the same time as Cas slowly strokes his hand down, then up, adding a little extra squeeze at the top.

“It’s fortunate you’re not wearing clothing that could become wet and have to be removed, then,” Cas observes, his eyes falling shut and his head dropping back as he moves his hand faster and firmer over their erections.

“I’m appropriately dressed this time, then,” Dean chuckles, his hips bucking as Cas’ palm smooths across the hot skin of his cock.

“I suppose I find your attire acceptable,” Cas chokes as Dean gently drags his nails down the tops of Cas’ thighs.

“Thanks. Coming from the dude in the trenchcoat who can’t tie his own tie, that means a lot,” Dean pants. “Shit. Shit, Cas, I’m gonna come.”

Castiel lets out a pleased grunt and speeds up his strokes. Dean grits his teeth and his hands clench at Cas’ thighs as he spills over Cas’ fingers. His body melts into post-orgasmic bliss and the air leaves his lungs in a satisfied sigh. 

Dean only allows himself half a second of basking before he surges up, sliding his arms up behind Cas’ broad back and flipping them so Cas is the one on his back and Dean is kneeling between his knees. Dean turns his attention to Castiel’s erection and strokes him quickly to completion. Cas shudders and groans as he comes.

Dean flops down onto the bed next to Cas, who turns his flushed, sweaty face towards Dean and smiles. Dean grins.

“Just because I sometimes disregard my own appearance doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate someone else’s,” Cas states, picking up the thread of their banter.

“Yeah, well, I guess I appreciate your current attire, too, but forgive me if I’m not gonna recommend you wear it when you’re campaigning,” Dean laughs, reaching out to trail his fingertips over Castiel’s arm. Cas reaches his other hand out to snag the abandoned towel from the edge of the bed and wipe sticky globs of semen off of both himself and Dean, then tosses it aside again and snuggles himself in close to Dean. Dean grins and drapes his arms lazily around Cas’ long, lean body. “Never figured you for a snuggler,” Dean comments.

“It’s not a propensity I was aware of, either,” Cas says, then pauses in reflection. “An affinity for desiring physical proximity after sex is not in my stats.”

“First, we’re gonna work on the dirty talk. Second, are there seriously stats for  _ kinks _ ?”

“It is possible to commission certain sexual preferences,” Castiel informs him, “but I’m not aware that my father did so in my case.”

“Wow - that’s - disturbing.” Dean pulls Cas a in a little tighter, and Cas lays his ear over Dean’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“They determined which gender I should prefer, what personality traits would be complementary to mine, even the size of my penis. But this,” Castiel reflects, then smiles, “this is something that I chose. I like this. I like you.”

Dean swallows, glad that Cas’ face is turned away from his and therefore can’t see his blush.

“Did you leave any hot water for me?” Dean changes the subject, playing with a damp strand of Castiel’s sex-mussed hair.

“The building has an excellent supply of hot water,” Cas sniffs. “The bathroom is just across the hall.”

“Towels?”

“In the linen cabinet to the right of the sink.”

“Great. You gonna let me up?”

“No.” Dean can feel Cas’ lips curve up into a smile against his bare chest, his eyelashes a faint tickle as he blinks. Dean rolls his eyes and presses a kiss to the top of Cas’ head.

“I think the GE’s may have messed up and slipped some sloth genes in there with the rest of you,” Dean teases, carefully shifting out from underneath Cas, depositing him onto the bed and stretching as he stands. Castiel watches him, appreciation warring with a pout on his face. “Be back in ten,” Dean promises, dropping another kiss onto Cas’ hair.

Dean’s suitcase from Springfield is sitting next to the front door, so he dashes out to grab it before heading into the large bathroom. He empties his bladder, brushes his teeth, and takes the quickest shower of his life, despite the excellent water pressure of Castiel’s shower making him want to linger in the warm spray for hours. He's going to have to take advantage of that sometime when Cas isn't naked and waiting for him in bed, and preferably when Cas is there to enjoy the water pressure right along with him. He wraps his waist in a towel to match Cas’, and is back in bed, wrapped back up in Cas’ clinging arms, in probably less than the estimated ten minutes. 

They laze around in bed for a while, talking and kissing and generally enjoy each others’ presence. Eventually Cas demands coffee and they migrate to the kitchen, where Cas prepares his required caffeine and Dean scrounges in Cas’ mostly barren fridge for something edible. After Dean determines that the bread in the pantry has gone moldy and the mostly-empty carton of eggs in the fridge is sporting an expiration date of several months ago, the two men begrudgingly agree to put on some clothes so they can go out and get some sustenance. Dean wears the least offensive smelling outfit from his suitcase; Cas wears a sweater vest.

Their first meal of the day is a little too late to call breakfast, and Dean insists that calling it brunch is too gay, despite Castiel pointing out that he is currently involved in a homosexual relationship. After they eat, Cas conceeds to allowing Dean to stop at his apartment and get a fresh change of clothes before they retreat back to Cas’ condo. They talk, make out, watch awful made-for-tv movies, order take out for dinner, make love, and fall asleep in each others’ arms.

Saturday morning, Castiel is the one poking Dean awake. Dean sleepily paws him in the face to get him to back off.

“Dean, it’s Saturday,” Cas growls.

“Yeah, I know. Weekend. No work. Why’re you waking me up?” Dean pouts into his pillow.

“Saturday. Your LSAT class,” Cas reminds him. Dean groans and shakes his head. “Dean!”

Dean rolls onto his side so he can see Castiel’s concerned face beside him.

“I’m not going,” Dean tells him. Castiel frowns, the lines between his eyebrows creasing. Dean scoots closer to him, letting his palm explore Cas’ side. “The whole law school thing? I hate it. I always have. I always will. I like this. I like you. I’ve let my dad decide my whole life for me, job, wife, eye color, everything. But I choose you.” Dean leans forward to kiss the tip of Cas’ nose. “And I have a feeling it’s going to work out better than anything anyone else chose for me.”

Castiel closes his eyes, reaching out to squeeze Dean’s hips, hoping to convey what his words could not. Dean understands. 

Cas slowly blinks his eyes open and peers at Dean’s face. “I don’t know,” Cas says, “I like the color of your eyes.”

Dean can’t help but laugh.

Sunday night Dean spends alone in his own apartment, his stomach churning and his heart cold without Cas’ reassuring presence at his side, worrying about what awaits them once they leave the safe little bubble they’ve been indulging in the past few days. Dean has never dreaded a Monday morning more.

Dean’s not entirely sure how he feels about Monday morning starting with Meg declaring, “I have a terrible idea,” the moment he walks through the office door.

“You’re gonna hate it,” Meg continues. “But just go with me for a minute, okay?”

“The fuck are you talking about, Meg,” Dean groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s too early for this shit.”

“Aw, Angel’s dick wear you out?” Meg mocks. “Can’t keep up with that perfect gen stamina?”

“No, god, I should send a gift basket to whatever GE decided on Cas’ sexual stamina numbers,” Dean mutters, memories from the weekend playing in high-def through his mind. Meg smirks knowingly at him.

“What are you talking about?” Castiel asks as he enters the office behind Dean, trenchcoat in one hand, bag slung over a shoulder. Dean’s face lights up and he allows himself to be tugged in for a quick peck on the lips.

“Your dick,” Meg answers, “and it’s apparently mindblowing capabilities, judging by the expression on your boyfriend’s face when I mentioned it.”

“It’s a shame you’ll never know from experience,” Dean mocks, earning a scowl from both Meg and a red-faced Cas. “Meg was just begging me to listen to her terrible idea. Her words, not mine,” Dean redirects the conversation back on track.

“Oh no,” Castiel groans, his tone implying how many of Meg’s terrible ideas he’s had to listen to in the past.

“Oh, come on, Clarence, hear me out.”

“What’re you guys talking about?” Cheryl enters the office next, peering curiously at her colleagues group around

“Boss’ dick,” Meg snaps, irritated by another interruption.

“Oh. Again?” Cheryl’s face flushes pink, and she tips her head a little to the side, reminiscent of Cas. She turns to look up at Dean with wide, innocent eyes. “Why, is it that good?”

Dean coughs and chokes, and is saved from having to answer by the ringing of his cell phone from his pocket. Meg is braying laughter and patting Cheryl on the back while Cas glowers at the two women.

“Hello?” Dean answers his phone without looking at the screen, leaving Cas to attempt to restore order.

"Hey, look at that, Dean Winchester learned how to answer a fucking phone," Jessica Moore's voice drawls over the phone.

"Jess?" Dean winces. So maybe he's sent her calls to voicemail a few times over the past few weeks. He's a crap friend.

"I thought maybe you died or something; I had to hear from Missouri about Sam's relapse and you leaving town," Jess gripes, and she definitely sounds pissed.

"Um. Sorry, Jess. I just - no. Fuck it. I'm just a crappy friend, you deserved to hear about Sam from me," Dean sighs, guilt heavy in his chest.

"Yeah, no kidding. I'm glad you're ok, though," her voice softens a little. "Are you back in town, then?"

"Yeah, I am. Sam gets back on Friday."

"How's he doing?" Jess inquires, a sudden change of mood to quiet and tense.

"Good. Better. I think getting out of town, seeing the fam did him good," Dean tells her sincerely. 

"Good."

"So, uh - how're you?" Dean's usually good at small talk,god knows ten years of politics have given him enough practice, but his guilt is stunting his charm.

"I'm good," Jess laughs, and Dean smiles, grateful for her sweet, forgiving nature. "You wanna grab drinks after work, catch up?"

"Sounds good," Dean agrees. They pick a bar to meet at and exchange their goodbyes. 

Dean returns his attention to where Castiel is squinting at Meg, realizing he missed their entire conversation, and probably the pronouncement of Meg's terrible idea. 

"What'd I miss?" Dean asks, and Cas turns to him slowly, his face serious, but Dean can see a thoughtful glint in his eyes.

"I think you should listen to Meg's idea," Cas says, and Meg grins, rubbing her hands together gleefully. 

"Hold down the fort, Cher," Meg orders, and stalks into the conference room. Dean and Cas exchange glances and follow her.

"So," Dean says, staring Meg down from across the conference table.

"So," she responds with a trademark smirk. "You and Angel got a press problem. I think it's absolutely precious that the press consultant hasn't seen the obvious solution."

Dean snarls at her, but Cas lays a hand over his arm and gives him a pointed look. Meg licks her lips.

"You're worried about that bastard Crowley writing another 'human interest' piece about you fucking the boss, right?" Meg doesn't have any problem getting right down to the dirty details. "So all you got to do is make sure there's nothing for him to write about."

"But - Meg, there  _ is _ something to write about. I'm totally fucking the boss," Dean admits, and it actually feels good to admit that out loud for the first time. Cas makes an almost inaudible grunt of discomfort - or maybe arousal? - beside him.

"Point. But Crowley wants a scandal. Playboy strikes again, seducing second politician. Novak takes advantage of employee. Disgraced staffer trades sexual favors for employment opportunity." Meg's eyes practically glow with the imagined headlines and both men glare at her. She smiles at them. "You may be fucking, but it doesn't have to be a scandal, not if someone else get the story first, before Crowley gets his slimy little hands on it."

Dean stares at her, his brain working in overdrive considering what Meg just suggested. It's risky, but - fuck, it might just work if they do it right. He's a PR professional, he should be able to pull something like this off.

"What do you have in mind?" Dean asks, and Meg grins.

"Michael is going to hate this," Cas points out.

"Even better," Dean and Meg both say in enthusiastic unison.

~~

“You got laid,” Jess says brightly as she hugs Dean in greeting that evening in the bar.

“Jesus, what is with you women? Do you all have this sixth sense about when dudes score ass?” Dean rolls his eyes.

“Maybe. Or maybe you just really needed it that bad. Who was it?” Jess chuckles, waving down the bartender to order her drink.

“Just - ah - someone,” Dean deflects lamely, taking an over-large gulp of the beer he was nursing and avoiding Jess’ eyes.

“Oh my god, it was Castiel, wasn’t it? Please tell me it was Castiel!” 

Dean almost chokes on his beer.

“What the hell, Jess?” he coughs, his eyes darting around the moderately crowded bar to see if anyone overheard.

“Oh. Shit, sorry. It’s just that Sam said - nevermind.” She looks sheepish. Fucking little brothers and their fucking big mouths.

“You’re - ah - you’re not wrong,” Dean confesses, rubbing the back of his neck and keeping his eyes down on the bar. “It’s just kinda complicated, ‘cause of the whole - me - thing. You know, my past. We’re trying to keep it quiet.”

“Oh.” Jess’ eyes light up in understanding. “ _ Oh _ . Sorry. But, congratulations! You’re, like, glowing, he must be  _ good _ .”

“Ok, I am really disturbed by you girls and your alarmingly filthy and perceptive brains,” Dean grumbles, silently cursing the heat he can feel flushing his cheeks. Jess chuckles. 

Thankfully, Jess allows the conversation to move on to life, and work, and generally catching up. But after a few drinks, their sensors start to fail and it’s Dean who dives back into the relationship crap.

“So, speaking of getting laid,” he slurs, “what’s up with you and my brother?”

Jess groans and drops her head into her hands.

“The last time I spoke to him we were having a shouting match in the middle of the freaking street. Then I have to go and find out he relapsed? I can do better than this, Dean, I  _ deserve _ better than an emotionally stunted drug addict,” she declares.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees quietly, “you do.” He reflects. “The emotionally stunted thing is kind of a family trait. You would think Mom at least would have tried to GE that out.”

“Genes aren’t everything.” Jess gives a rueful smile. “You’d think you’d have realized that by now, Mr. Boo-hoo, I think I’m a bust because I’m talented and successful and scored a kick-ass boyfriend.”

“Careful. Aforementioned kick-ass boyfriend might actually kick your ass if he thinks you’re hitting on me. Trust me, you wouldn’t like him when he’s angry.”

“You’re dating the Hulk?”

Dean considers for a moment. “Yes,” he decides. “I am dating the Hulk.”

Jess giggles. “Guess the drugged up puppy that is your brother not really that bad in comparison, then, huh?”

Dean snorts, then sighs. “Sam’s getting better. He’s going to be better. Jess, I swear he’s not going to be drugged-up forever. Maybe someday…”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “Maybe someday.”

The conversation falls back to less touchy subjects and they wind down the night as their senses start to come down from almost drunk to a little tipsy. As Dean slouches into the backseat of the cab to his apartment, he hopes Sam pulls his head out of his ass soon, because he really shouldn’t let this girl be the one who got away.

He tells Sam as much on Friday when he picks him up from the bus station. Sam hangs his head and nods.

“I know,” Sam mumbles. “God, I know. I’m -” he sighs heavily, “I’m working on it, Dean. That’s why I’m back. I’m going to go back to the clinic, and I’m going to get better. I am.”

There’s passionate resolve in his voice that Dean doesn’t remember hearing before, and it gives him a new surge of hope and pride. 

“Yeah, Sammy,” he agrees, “you are.”

“So how’s your boyfriend?” Sam asks with a grin, eager to turn the conversation away from himself.

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles, but he can’t stop the smile that crawls across his face every time he thinks of Castiel. 

“You’re, like, glowing,” Sam observes, earning the elder Winchester’s best bitchface.

“Seriously? You must’ve got the chick senses. What is up with everyone saying that we’re fucking  _ glowing _ ,” Dean complains. “We’re not nightlights.”

“Aw, you’re  _ adorable _ when you’re in love,” Sam swoons. Dean’s hands clench around the steering wheel and he scowls at the road. He’s been avoiding the L-word like a plague, and hearing Sam say it out loud is like a punch to the gut. “You’re going through with the plan?”

“Yeah,” Dean confirms, thinking about Meg’s plan and how they’re setting it into motion.

“It’s gonna work, Dean,” Sam assures him. “They’re never gonna know what hit them.”

Dean just nods and hopes his brother is right.

 


	15. On Paper

Anna sits at the small conference table in Cas’ office, crossing her arms on the table in front of her and leveling a serious gaze at the two men sitting across from her.

“You’re sure about this?” she asks, lifting an eyebrow and staring down one set of blue eyes and one set of green.

“We’re sure,” Castiel confirms.

“Michael is going to be after your throats for this,” she adds, shaking her head when Dean grins.

“We know,” Cas nods, ignoring his partner. “Fortunately, Michael does not own either one of us and if he is disturbed by our personal lives that is his problem, not ours.”

Dean is staring at Cas like he’s the sexiest being on the planet, his eyes bright and almost - Anna hates to use the word after hearing Dean complain about it for the past week - glowing. She takes in a deep, shuddering breath, her eyes beginning to prickle a little with emotion.

“I’m really proud of you, Castiel,” she says quietly, blinking at her brother. “You too, Dean,” she smiles at her friend. “Although when I told you not to hurt my brother I didn’t think it would ever be a real issue. I guess I need to give you the big sister talk again, now.”

“Already got the message loud and clear,” Dean holds up his hands. “One scratch on the angel and you and Meg will put aside your differences and I’ll never be seen or heard from again.”

“Meg is very creative with her threats,” Cas agrees, and Dean shivers. Anna snorts.

“Ok. So, you know I’m not really a human interest kind of writer,” she starts, opening up her laptop and arranging a pad of paper to scribble notes on.

“We are aware,” Castiel says, and Dean adds, “There’s no one else we trust to do this.”

Anna smiles at them.

“Well, I’m certainly not going to argue with getting an upper hand on Fergus Crowley,” she acknowledges. “And there’s only one thing people love more than a scandal.”

Castiel tilts his head and Dean lifts an inquiring eyebrow.

“A love story,” Anna grins.

~~

Life settles in around Dean, back to a comfortable routine that’s mostly the same as it was before he and Cas were he-and-Cas. There’s work, and Meg, and visits to Sam, and dates with Cas that he can actually call dates, now. The biggest change is all the totally awesome sex he gets to have after said dates.

Dean’s apartment feels empty with Sam living at the clinic. Sometimes it’s a welcome relief, an opportunity to simply relish in the abundance of space that’s just his. Other times it’s lonely, which is strangely good in it’s own way, but Dean prefers to just head over to Cas’ condo, or to visit Sam. He stops by every day to pick up the mail, at least.

It’s an average Tuesday evening, Dean is lying on Cas’ couch, dozing while the news plays on the TV in the background, and Castiel is sorting through his mail. 

“Dean,” Cas calls from his seat at the kitchen table. “You have an envelope addressed to you from the Law School Admission Council.”

“Huh?” Dean sits up and peers over the back of the couch. “I have a what?”

Cas waves the envelope at him. “LSAC?”

“Oh.” Dean frowns. “Shit. The LSATs.”

“The LSATs? You didn’t take them, though.”

“I know. They were the same day as our interview with Anna,” Dean recalls. “Maybe it’s something about a no-show fee or something.”

“But, Dean, it says here you scored a 174,” Cas puzzles. Dean sits up again to frown across the room.

“Cas, I just told you, I didn’t take the test. I was with you and Anna all day that day,” Dean reiterates.

“And I am telling you that I am looking at a piece of paper with your name on it and a score of 174 on the LSAT,” Cas returns, waving the paper at him.

“What’re you opening my mail for anyway,” Dean grumbles as he heaves himself off the couch to see for himself.

“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t leave piles of it all over my kitchen,” Cas points out, handing Dean the letter when he takes a seat at the table. Dean’s forehead scrunches as he studies the paper, which does, indeed, bear his name and an LSAT score of 174.

“They must’ve mixed up the names,” Dean finally concludes. “Even if I did take the test, no way I would have scored that high. I never got higher than a 169 on a practice exam, and I haven’t even studied for months. Sammy commandeered all my LSAT books.” That sparks a thought in his head that Dean pushes aside in favor of tossing the letter on top of the pile of unopened mail on the table and sliding his chair across the floor so he’s pressed shoulder to shoulder up against Castiel.

“I’m sure you can clear up the misunderstanding with the LSAC if you want to retake the test,” Castiel teases, trying in vain to continue focusing on sorting Dean’s mail.

“I’m never taking that damn test, Cas,” Dean huffs, smiling and leaning into Cas’ side. “I’ve already got what I want.” Dean proves his point by leaning forward to press a sloppy kiss to Cas’ cheek and nuzzle into his neck.

“Dean,” Cas whispers, his hands slipping around Dean’s back to hold him close. 

Dean proceeds to successfully distract him from further household chores that day.

The next day, Dean waves the LSAC letter in front of Sam while they sit in the common room of the clinic.

“Looks like I got a 174 on the LSAT,” Dean brags, wiggling his eyebrows at his brother and trying to read the expressions that flit across Sam’s face.

“Wow! Dean, that’s great!” Sam says unconvincingly.

“Yeah. It’s funny, though, ‘cause I never actually took the test.” 

“Imagine that.”

The two brothers stare at each other. Dean breaks first.

“Oh, c’mon, Sammy! You stole my identity and busted out of rehab to take the LSATs?”

“I did not!” Sam denies, flinching under Dean’s scowl. “It’s not like you were going to take the damned test, anyway.”

“How’d you even pull that off? It takes, like, fifty different types of IDs to even get into the testing center.”

“It’s a test, not Fort Knox. It’s not like they were looking that hard.”

“The fuck, Sam, you  _ stole my identity _ .”

“And I’m  _ sorry _ about that! But, seriously, it’s just a test.”

Dean grits his teeth and gulps a deep, hopefully calming, breath.

“What in god’s name possessed you to want to sneak out and take the LSATs under a fake name?”

Sam’s eyes slip down towards the ground and he fidgets in his seat.

“I didn’t sneak out. I mentioned to my counselor that I was interested in taking the LSAT, and she thought it would be a good idea. She  _ encouraged _ me to go. I just, kinda, left out the part where it wasn’t actually  _ me _ who registered. But I figured, you weren’t going to take the test, and it’s not like I can apply to law schools, so what’s the harm?”

“And what made you so sure that I wasn’t going to take the test?” Dean snaps. Sam’s head jerks up in surprise at the question, and he smirks fondly at his older brother.

“Dean. You haven’t even studied in months. Not since you first started going out with Cas, and that was way before you guys officially got together. And now - you’re so happy it’s almost creepy. You were never going to take that test.”

“I -” Dean grimaces, realizing he doesn’t have a real argument to Sam’s point. He is happy, and he never was going to take that test. “Fine. But what’s this crap about not applying to law school, then? You got a fucking 174!”

Sam’s face falls again, and it makes Dean’s gut wrench to see the way his head hangs as he studies his shoes.

“You got over Dad’s bullcrap about the mods. I haven’t,” Sam admits. Dean swallows.

“Sammy -”

“Don’t start, Dean. It’s why I’m  _ here _ . Taking the LSAT - that was part of it, for me. Getting over all the crap in my head. I’m not over it yet,” Sam says, then he lifts his head to look Dean straight in the eye. “But I will be.”

Dean reaches out to place a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “you will be. Now enough with the chick flick moment, if you ever steal my fucking identity again, I will kick your ass six ways from Sunday, bitch.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it, jerk.”

~~

_ Turn on the news _ .

The text message from Anna was eerily reminiscent of the one he had received almost a year ago, the one that had turned his world on its head and changed his entire life. 

“What is it?” Cas grumbles from where he’s burrowed under the covers, still mostly asleep.

“Anna,” Dean replies, trying to untangle himself from Castiel’s determinedly clinging limbs. “She says to turn on the news. Must be something about the article.”

Cas makes a displeased noise and tries to pull Dean back down onto the bed. Dean rolls his eyes and kicks Cas’ shin gently, receiving an unhappy grunt in response.

“Let me up, Sunshine,” Dean orders, wiggling out of bed. “You have to get up for work, anyway. Mrs. Ames is coming in to sign her tax returns. Stop pouting.”

The article had hit the newsstands in the evening paper. Anna emailed them the online version late that night, but Dean didn’t read it. Cas had read it, along with all the drafts Anna had sent them, but Dean wasn’t sure he was ready to see his name in print again. Not until he had a good night’s sleep, at least.

Dean flipped on Cas’ widescreen HD TV in his living room, sinking onto the couch and finding the morning news.

“I think it’s sweet,” one of the morning news anchors was saying. “Almost like Romeo & Juliet, star crossed lovers and all that.”

“I don’t know about that. The guy’s a Novak, you don’t think he has enough money to buy good press when he screws up?” Another anchor replies.

“Or screws  _ someone _ ,” a third reporter snickers. Dean grimaces, and changes the channel.

“Oh, here’s a heartwarming story from overnight,” a blonde talk show host tells her co-host. “Remember the story from last year about the political staffer who was caught in an affair with his boss?”

“Oh boy, yes, that story was an  _ eyeful _ , wasn’t it?” the bowtie-wearing co-host chuckles.

“Well, it looks like the story is a  _ heart-ful _ this time around!” Blonde-host giggles, and Dean gags at the bad pun. “It looks like that staffer has finally left his cheating ways behind and found  _ true love _ !”

“Someone might want to tell him that his dating pool is bigger than just the folks he works for, though,” bowtie-host jokes. Dean groans and changes the channel again.

“-iel Novak, the youngest of the Novak gens, who most of us know as the man who Michael Novak raised as a son,” a serious faced reporter reads to the camera.

Dean jolts when Cas drops onto the couch next to him, clutching a steaming cup of coffee and leaning against his side as he glares at the TV.

“Hey, where’s mine?” Dean whines, making a grab for Cas’ coffee, at risk of his life, judging from the intimidating stare of doom he receives from his boyfriend. The  _ get your own _ doesn’t need to be spoken.

“I don’t like this man,” Castiel croaks, sifting the stare of doom from Dean to the TV reporter. The reporter has moved on to ruminating on the potential impact of Castiel’s love affair on Michael’s polling numbers. Dean changes channels.

“In all seriousness, though,” a kind-eyed journalist says as the camera pulls in on her face, “this story is important in so many ways. It speaks to the issues of genetic profiling that plague this country, and the rampant homophobia that our society still can’t quite escape. It sheds light on the failings of both our social structure and our political system. It offers hope for those of us who make mistakes, and, let’s be honest, that is each and every one of us. So all I have to say is, thank you, Dean and Castiel, for sharing your story with us, and for giving us light and hope for a future that is, perhaps, a little bit better than our present.”

Dean mutes the volume on the TV and turns to look at Cas.

“What the hell did Anna write in that article?” Dean wonders. Cas eyes him over the rim of his coffee mug.

“Just the truth.” Cas glances back at the TV, where a commercial for Honey Nut Cheerios is now playing. “Do you think it worked?”

“Dunno.” Dean leans back into the couch and runs a hand through his hair. “It did  _ something _ . Everyone’s got a different angle, though, so I guess we’ll just have to wait and see if we come out on top or not.”

“I believe I came out on top,” Cas says, his eyes flashing wickedly, “regardless of what the general public may think.” Dean turns red, and knocks his shoulder into Cas’.

“I think I may need to separate you and Meg,” he grumbles.

They take a cab to the office in an attempt to lay low, although there are no flocks of reporters hovering like vultures, like there was after Dean’s last scandal. Inside the office, Meg is leaning back in Cheryl’s chair, her feet propped up on the reception desk, last night’s paper spread open in front of her.

“ _ When I received the phone call from Dean, asking me to come to Chicago and interview them for this article, I wanted to be surprised by the change in their relationship, but I have to admit that I was not. I had seen them together several months before, and have never seen two people better suited to each other than Dean and Castiel. They worked together and supported each other as only those who share a profound bond are able. At the time it did not cross my mind - or theirs - to label that bond as a romantic one, but when it eventually transformed into romance, it was not hard to see how it came to be _ ,” Meg read aloud from the paper. She lowers the edge slightly so she can gaze over it at Dean and Castiel. “Have you guys read this sappy piece of shit?”

“Yes,” Cas replies calmly, stripping off his trenchcoat, while Dean drops his head into his hand.

“Is it that bad?” he asks Meg, who arches her eyebrow and smirks.

“ _ Castiel confessed to me privately that without Dean by his side, he may never have found the courage to continue his campaign. ‘I was ready to give up,’ he said, sadly, ‘I thought that perhaps my specs were all I had to offer, and that no one would ever see beyond what my father created me to be. But Dean never saw the specs, I don’t think he ever read them, actually. All he saw was me.’ Dean expressed a similar sentiment during our interview. ‘I thought I had [messed] up my life for good, until I met Cas. He told me that he thought everyone deserved a second chance, and he made me believe I didn’t have to be defined by my biggest mistakes. I would probably be miserable, crying my way through law school if it weren’t for him.’ _ ”

“I thought it was so sweet,” Cheryl comments, entering the office behind them. “I think even my boyfriend teared up a little when he read it.”

“Is that… good?” Castiel wonders as Dean groans.

“Butch dude getting misty eyed over a couple of gay lovebirds? I’m gonna say good,” Meg shrugs. “Either way, you’ve got requests for interviews from six local news stations, three national ones, and a shit-ton of emails. Also, Stacy called to let you know that you have to say yes to all the interviews.”

“ _ All _ of them?” Dean yelped.

“I’m calling Anna,” Cas said, stalking to his office. Meg waves the paper in Dean’s face as he tries to get past her to his own desk.

“Don’tcha want to read it, loverboy?” she taunts, and Dean snatches the paper out of his face and glares at her. He makes sure Meg and Cheryl aren’t looking his way when he slouches behind his desk and opens the paper to see Anna’s article.

As Castiel said, the article is nothing but the truth, although romanticized as heck. But, like Anna said, people love a good love story. Dean can’t help but feel a faint blush creep across his cheeks as Anna waxes poetic about how he and Cas gaze lovingly at each other, and he glances up again to make sure no one is watching him.

_ This was never meant to be a love story _ , the article reads, near the end.  _ And I’m sure many will read this and say that it’s not, that a love between these two men could never be possible. That their genes contradict it. And, on paper, perhaps that is true. Fortunately for Dean and Castiel, and for all of us human beings here on planet earth, life is so much more mysterious and complicated and wonderful than a piece of paper would have us believe. Being alive means that sometimes you make mistakes, and sometimes you defy the odds, and sometimes you fall in love with your best friend. _

“Dean?”

Dean almost falls off his chair and Castiel peers at him, concerned. 

“Uh. Hey, Cas.”

Cas glances at the paper and a slight smile creases his eyes.

“What did you think of the article?”

Dean’s eyes skim over the words again;  _ sometimes you fall in love with your best friend _ .

“I’m in love with you,” Dean says to the paper. Cas makes a strange choking sound and Dean’s eyes shoot up to him in concern.

“What?” Cas gurgles.

“I love you. Cas, I’m in love with you,” Dean says, right to Cas’ face this time. Castiel gapes at him.

“I’ve never been in love before,” Cas whispers hoarsely.

“Neither have I. But I’m pretty sure that this is what it feels like,” Dean says, pushing himself to his feet and reaching out to fiddle with Cas’ tie - knot done up properly for once, because Dean is the one who tied it earlier that morning.

“Oh.” Cas watches Dean’s hands for a few seconds, then reaches up to take hold of them, threading their fingers together and tugging Dean a little closer. “I think I like it.”

“Me too,” Dean smiles softly. Cas presses a dry kiss onto Dean’s lips.

“I love you, Dean Winchester,” Cas breathes the revelation, and Dean steals the words from his lips with another kiss.

“Yes. I definitely like this,” Dean decides. Castiel chuckles and pecks him with another chaste kiss.

“Anna says we have to do all the interviews,” Cas informs him.

“Fuck,” Dean curses. Castiel hums in agreement and leans his forehead against Dean’s, loosely snaking his arms around Dean’s waist.

“Just think of it as public exposure. Increasing name recognition.”

Dean laughs. “Now you’re talking like a politician.” 

Dean catches a glimpse of something moving behind Cas and he frowns when he peers over Castiel’s shoulder to find Meg leaning on the wall and observing them, smirk firmly in place on her face. She holds up her hands when she notices Dean glowering at her.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” she chirps. “By all means, please, continue. I’m enjoying the show.”

Cas sighs and releases Dean to face his assistant.

“Yes, what is it, Meg?”

Meg’s smirk disappears ominously.

“His highness, Lord Vader, requests your presence via teleconference,” she sneers. Castiel’s head rolls back and he winces. 

“Hey, we knew this was coming, right?” Dean jumps in to reassure him. “Don’t let Mr.  _ I-am-your-father-Cas _ give you crap.”

Castiel nods silently, face a little pale, and Meg pats his shoulder comfortingly. He gives her hand a grateful squeeze.

“Meg, please call the producers who contacted you and schedule our interviews. Dean can start going through the emails,” Cas orders.

Meg salutes. “You’re the boss, Clarence. Let me know if I need to dust off my grave-digging shovel.”

“Meg,” Cas sighs.

“Just kidding. You think I don’t know better than to just bury a body?”

Dean ignores Meg and presses a kiss to Cas’ jaw.

“We’ll go get gelato later,” Dean promises. Castiel rolls his eyes.

“I am not a child, Dean,” he protests.

“And burgers,” Dean adds. Cas just gives him a frustrated look and a that-sounds-awesome-but-I’m-not-giving-you-the-satisfaction head tilt. Dean grins. “Maybe even banana cream pie, if you’re good.”

Cas shakes his head and stalks back to his office.

“So. Babe like cream pies, huh?” Meg leers. 

“That one was too easy,” Dean says, not even sparing her a glance. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Meg chuckles and disappears back to her desk. Dean turns to his computer, cracking his knuckles and trying to grimace about the hundreds of emails he has to sort through, but unable to wipe the smile off his face, because he’s in love with his best friend.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, they're in love! 
> 
> Only one more chapter to go, folks. This is it.


	16. Perfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endings are hard...
> 
> Thank you so much to you all! To the lovely souls who have left comments, your words mean the world to me. To everyone who has read and left kudos, you are my sunshine.
> 
> So, without further ado, here it is: the final chapter.

November 5 is Election Day. It’s a dreary, drizzly, generally awful day, and to top it all off, Castiel is in one of the worst moods Dean has ever seen him in. 

Dean, Cas, and Meg stayed up all night working on last minute preparations and stubbornly avoiding the major news outlets’ constant flood of Michael Novak. Dean passed out on the floor of Cas’ office sometime around 2 a.m.. Castiel, according to Meg’s report, started dozing at his desk around 4, and Meg, with a seemingly inhuman disregard for sleep, worked straight through and woke the two men up at 5:30 with an eardrum-shattering rendition of Lady Gaga’s  _ Born This Way _ . So, the day could have started off a little better.

Cas slumps moodily in the Impala’s passenger seat while Dean drives them to Cas’ condo to freshen up before heading to the polls. They listen to local talk radio drone about Michael and the election. Dean feels like he is walking on eggshells back in the condo, where he makes coffee as Castiel showers. A stream of gravelly curses coming from the bathroom draws Dean in. He taps on the door.

“Hey, babe, need some help?” Dean calls through the crack in the bathroom door.

“No, thank you, Dean,” Cas hisses back, and Dean hurriedly backs away. Castiel crashes around the bathroom and bedroom for a while and Dean hovers anxiously over the coffee in the kitchen and watches the early morning election coverage on the muted TV. Cas looks close to tears when he finally shuffles into the kitchen, partially dressed and holding a tie in each hand. 

Dean melts. He tugs the strips of silk out of Cas’ hands and replaces them with a mug of steaming coffee. Cas takes a sip of his coffee, and Dean follows his gaze to where one of Michael’s campaign ads is currently being splashed over the TV screen. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dean asks quietly, looping his favorite blue tie around Cas’ neck. Cas shakes his head minutely. Dean sighs and presses a kiss to a tiny knick on Cas’ freshly shaven jaw.

Castiel didn’t talk about what Michael had said to him the day the article was released. Meg did her best to eavesdrop, but even she was unsuccessful at following the conversation. When Cas finally emerged, grim-faced, from his office, he allowed Dean to buy him gelato and take him home where they curled around each other in mutual comfort with whispered confessions of love. After that, Castiel’s mood recovered phenomenally, until Election Day.

Cas allows Dean to help him finish getting dressed, then sits on the couch with his coffee and watches the morning news ruminate on Michael Novak’s likely presidency while Dean dashes through his morning routine. If they mention anything about Cas, Dean, or the article, Dean is not sorry his misses it. 

“Hey!” Dean stops Castiel before they leave the apartment. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Dean holds up Castiel’s trenchcoat, left abandoned over one of the kitchen chairs. Cas fidgets.

“I thought you didn’t like the coat,” he mutters. “Aren’t you concerned about any cameras there might be at the polls?”

Dean rolls his eyes and drapes the trenchcoat over Cas’ shoulders.

“I think it’s a little too late for that now. Not sure the voters will recognize you without it,” he jokes. Cas grunts and looks away. Dean’s forehead creases and he tilts Cas’ jaw up towards him with a gentle thumb. “Hey, c’mon, what’s wrong? You’ve been off all day.”

“I’m fine,” Castiel snaps, jerking away and stalking towards the exit. “We’re going to be late.”

Dean sighs and trails after his moody boyfriend.

They get stuck in traffic. It’s uncomfortable. Dean attempts to change the radio to a classic rock station in an attempt to cut the tension, but Cas switches it back to the election coverage with an accompanying glare that challenges Dean to argue. Dean grits his teeth and glares at the tail lights of the car in front of him.

“We are late,” Cas declares as they inch forward and a car horn honks from somewhere behind them.

“If you really want to walk through the rain, be my guest,” Dean snarls, waving a hand towards the rain-drenched sidewalk as he restrains himself from flipping off the driver of the car tailgating him. Cas growls and Dean heaves a breath. “Sorry, babe, but this day isn’t getting any easier.”

Castiel droops in his seat. “No,” he agrees, “it is not.”

Dean’s phone rings from its place tossed onto the seat next to him. Castiel glances at the screen.

“Sam,” he informs Dean.

“Go ahead and answer,” Dean nods, hoping that Sam’s recent foray into therapy-induced touchy-feely-ness might help break Cas’ bad mood.

“Guess who I just voted for!” Sam’s voice rings out as Cas switches on the speakerphone.

“Dude, were you the first person in line, or something?” Dean scoffs.

“Jess wanted to go before work,” Sam defends.

“Morning, Dean!” Jess’ voice suddenly accompanies Sam’s. “Don’t worry, I’m taking Sam back to the clinic right now.”

“Feel free to keep him out. I trust you’ll make sure he only gets into the right kind of trouble,” Dean teases.

“Oh my god, Dean,” Sam groans, and Dean can practically hear his bitchface. His resulting smile is aborted when a driver swerves to cut him off and Dean lays on the horn.

“Apologies, Sam,” Cas says. “We are currently stuck in traffic. It is rather alarming.”

“Oh, hey Cas. I was wondering where you guys were, I saw a couple camera crews hanging around your polling place when we drove past,” Sam greets him. Cas frowns.

“Yeah, we were expecting that. Not expecting this goddamned traffic, though,” Dean huffs. “ _ Watch where you put that hulk, you asshole, this car’s a freaking classic _ ,” he adds out the window to the oversized SUV threatening to scrape the Impala’s paint job on their left.

“Someone’s having a good morning,” Jess observes, her voice sounding amused. Sam and Jess are, obviously. Cas just grimaces and Dean glowers at the driver of the SUV.

“Thank you for your vote, Sam,” Cas changes the subject, then stops short. “I. Um. I mean. Not to presume.”

“Of course I voted for you, Cas,” Sam assures him.

“Me too!” Jess chimes in. “Novak for Comptroller!” she cheers. Cas’ cheeks turn pink.

“Oh. Thank you both,” he says gratefully.

“You’re going to do an awesome job for the state,” Sam declares, and Cas ducks his head bashfully.

“Damn straight, he is,” Dean agrees loudly.

“Well, not  _ straight _ , exactly,” Jess chuckles, and all three men groan. “Give me a break, have you heard the jokes you guys tell?” she grumbles.

Dean spies a couple of tv news crews hanging out on the corner as they pull closer to their destination. He swerves into an underground parking garage, safely out of sight.

“Hey, guys, we’re here, we gotta go,” he tells Sam and Jess.

“Right. Good luck! We’re rooting for you, Cas,” Sam says.

“Thank you,” Cas answers, ending the call as Dean pulls into a parking space. Dean grabs his arm before he can get out of the car.

“Nuh-uh,” Dean shakes his head. “We’re going to talk about what’s going on with you before we go out there. It’s still my job to make you look good.”

Castiel slumps. Dean maneuvers as best he can in the cramped space inside the car so that they are face to face.

“Hey, talk to me,” Dean urges.

“I’m going to lose,” Cas confesses gratingly. Dean wants to wrap him up in a mountain of blankets and dose him with hot chocolate and suck his dick until that heartbreaking note is gone from his voice, but now is not the time for any of that.

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean says, brutally honest. “But you might win. We ran the numbers last night, and they didn’t look bad. You’ve been doing better since the article came out.”

Cas shakes his head. “I - I was stupid to think that I could do this. I’m going to lose. Michael is going to win. That’s the way things are.”

“Ok, I don’t quite agree with you there, but for argument’s sake, let’s just say you’re right. You lose. Michael wins. Now what? Is it really so bad?”

Castiel frowns, looking up at Dean, his head tilting curiously and his forehead furrowed.

“I - what?”

“Say you lose the election. You still have a job, and me, and Meg, and now thousands of other people who know who you are and think you’re pretty cool, too. It’s sucky that you didn’t get the job you wanted, and the State of Illinois is gonna be worse off without you, but is it really all that bad?” Castiel swallows, and Dean continues. “And, ok, Michael’s probably gonna win. President Novak, second generation. He’s a complete dick, but you and I both know that he’s also a pretty kick-ass politician. He’ll be off doing his job, and even if he wants to shit on you, he’s can’t, ‘cause now everyone knows who you are and if he doesn’t want to look bad, he’s gotta play nice. Plus, he’ll probably be too busy being all presidential and shit.”

“That’s possible,” Cas hesitates.

“So, even if shit goes down today, we’re going to get through this and it’s not going to be so bad, ok?” Dean assures him. Cas nods slowly, eyes wide. “Good.” Dean grabs the lapels of the trenchcoat and pulls Cas firmly towards him, planting a kiss firmly on his lips. Cas melts into his touch, and Dean sighs happily, teasing with his lips and tongue until Cas relaxes.

“I love you,” Cas whispers when Dean pulls back. Dean swears he can feel heat and light bursting out of him, he’s so full, and maybe everyone isn’t so far off base with the whole ‘glowing’ description.

“I love you,” Dean answers, and straightens Cas’ tie and smooths out his coat. “Let’s do this.”

Cas squares his shoulders and they both exit the car and head towards the street. The few camera crews camped out on the sidewalk perk up at the sight of them, and voters standing in line shuffle and turn their heads to gawk. The journalists are polite and organized, and after all the interviews they’ve been giving over the past several weeks, Dean and Cas are both practiced hands at giving them the shots and sound bites they need.

“How are you feeling about your chances today, Mr. Novak?” Cynthia Chang from Channel Seven asks.

“I am confident that I have shown my qualifications for election to the best of my abilities,” Castiel says, and Dean holds back a sigh at the grandiose language that he hasn’t been able to break Cas away from. “The rest is in the voters’ hands.”

“Are you going to be voting for your brother today?” Jim Neelson from the Daily Journal calls.

Dean notices the tick in Cas’ jaw, but is confident that none of the reporters can see the subtle tell of Cas’ discomfort.

“Win or lose, Michael has done an admirable job with his campaign,” Castiel deflects. “Our father would be proud of him.”

“Mr. Winchester,” a smarmy English accent cuts through the other voices. The crowd parts around Fergus Crowley. “Nice to see you again.”

“Crowley!” Dean’s smile is tight, and Castiel’s jaw clench is obvious now. 

“And Mr. Novak,” Crowley bobs a mocking bow towards Cas. “Exciting day, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Cas replies shortly before turning away, fully intent on ignoring Crowley. Crowley, unfortunately, doesn’t like to be ignored and he sidesteps to cut Castiel off.

“I saw the lovely piece Ms. Milton wrote for you,” Crowley drawls. “You consider her like a sister, do you not?”

“Her mother gave birth to me,” Castiel explains coldly.

“Ah. So all those wonderful things she said about you are certainly beneficial from her point of view. And she is also friends with Dean, how wonderfully that all worked out,” Crowley muses.

“She introduced us,” Dean reminds him, stuffing a hand into the pocket of his coat so he can clench his fist without displaying his anger in front of the cameras. He tries to see where Crowley’s end game is with these questions.

“Mr. Crowley,” Cynthia Chang from Channel Seven breaks into the conversation, earning a fierce scowl from Crowley. “You wrote the original article that exposed Mr. Winchester’s affair with Ms. Braeden. How do you feel about your accusations regarding Mr. Winchester’s sexual proclivities being proven false after his relationship with Mr. Novak surfaced?”

“I - false accusations?” Crowley stuttered, clearly caught off guard. “I made no such accusations, only presented my personal observations.”

“Mr. Crowley,” another reporter - Dean thinks his name might be Esteban - chimes in, “your recent personal observations of pop star Chloe Cruz and her wife have prompted them to file a restraining order against you. Do you have any comments on this development?”

“I have - I don’t think -” Crowley huffed, his face starting to turn red.

“You are currently the defendant in a civil suit by one of your former targets, Carlton Thomas, and several other subjects of your published articles, including Ms. Braeden, have also expressed an interest in pursuing legal action against you. Mr. Crowley, do you think your tactics are justified based on the claims against you?” a third reporter joins in. 

Dean is frozen, staring in disbelief as the pack of reporters start to circle around Crowley with varying degrees of menace in their expressions.

“Mr. Winchester,” Cynthia from Channel Seven, turns towards him with a gleam in her eye, “in light of the recent allegations against Mr. Crowley and the effect that his article has had on you, personally, are you considering joining Ms. Braeden if she decides to take legal action?”

Crowley is sweating and shaking slightly, looking like he’s just about to blow over from the attacks. Dean turns his Charming Smile towards Cynthia and the rest of the reporters.

“You know, honestly? If it hadn’t been for Crowley’s article, I probably never would have met Cas, so I really should be thanking him, more than anything,” Dean jokes, and earns a few  _ aww _ ’s and chuckles from his audience.

“It’s gratifying that Mr. Crowley’s crimes and discrepancies are being brought to light,” Castiel interjects seriously. “His words, as he himself said, are his personal observations and opinions, and are in no way representative of truth or fact. I hope that by proving his methods not only distasteful, but distrustful, we can repair the damage done to the names of good people, like Dean.”

“Yeah, I really don’t want to have to explain that I’m really not interesting in dating my bosses on every job interview I go on,” Dean adds.

“You better not be,” Cas mutters, just loud enough for the few closest reporters to overhear and giggle. Dean hams it up by slipping his arm around Cas’ waist and planting a dry kiss on his temple. A few cameras snap as another chorus of  _ aww _ ’s rises.

“Excuse me,” Crowley blusters, “but what about -” he stops short when the crowd turns on him with less-than-friendly expressions. He takes a step back and Dean can see his throat bob as he gulps.

“Yes, Mr. Crowley. What about -” Jim Neelson from the Daily Journal begins his own line of questioning. 

“Good luck today, Mr. Novak,” Cynthia wishes Cas with a friendly smile, before turning back to the bloodbath the reporters are making out of Crowley.

Dean and Cas share a look and slip into the building, leaving the news crews to deal with Crowley.

“I - wow - I wasn’t expecting  _ that _ ,” Dean gapes, leaning his hands on his knees, still torn somewhere between glee and panic.

“It appears that Anna is not alone in her assessment of Crowley’s lack of journalistic integrity,” Cas says. Dean laughs, at a loss for what else to do, and slings an arm around Cas’ shoulders.

“Alright, Angel, let’s get you elected to public office,” he says, and they file in line towards the voting booths in the next room.

It’s almost surreal to see ‘Castiel J. Novak’ right there in print on the ballot. They’ve been working towards this day for so long now, Dean can’t quite believe it’s here. He takes maybe a little longer than he should hovering over his ballot, his heart bursting with pride for his boyfriend.

When they leave, the few lingering reporters offer friendly waves, and Cas shakes the hands of several people in line who recognize him. One teenage boy, probably barely 18, dashes out to hug Dean, thanking him for going public with their relationship, explaining that he always thought he was a bust for being attracted to both men and women until he heard Dean’s story. Dean swallows the lump in his throat and returned the boy’s hug.

They escape back to the office to stew for the rest of the day. Castiel’s mood, while still stormy, improved since the early morning and he allows Dean to distract him from obsessing over the election coverage. Officially, the office is closed for the day, but Meg bursts in sometime in the late morning, crowing over voting, and even Cheryl stops by briefly around lunchtime with food and wishes of good luck and assurances that she and her boyfriend both voted for Castiel.

Castiel gets the call in the late afternoon. His face stays blank as he answers the unseen official at the other end of the line while Meg and Dean both hold their breath and try not to claw the phone away from him. The few minutes feel like hours before Cas gently sets the phone down and tilts his head towards his boyfriend and his assistant.

“I lost,” he declares simply.

“What,” Meg hisses.

“The votes are overwhelmingly in favor of the incumbent governor and her ticket, including the comptroller position. They’re calling the election. I lost.”

“Oh hell no. Those dumbasses can’t count. I’m going to kick those sorry sons of bitches from here to fucking hell and back,” Meg curses.

“Meg,” Dean reprimands, effectively shutting her up. He reaches out to grab Cas’ hand and grips it tightly. “You did amazing. And we’re going to be ok, right?”

“We did amazing,” Cas corrects, squeezing Dean’s fingers back. He smiles, that slow, sweet, shy smile that light up the whole room and does funny things to Dean’s insides. “And yes, we’re going to be ok.”

“Damn straight,” Meg snorts.

“Well, maybe not  _ straight _ ,” Dean chuckles. Cas smacks him lightly upside the head.

“I’m telling Jess,” Cas threatens. 

“Ow,” Dean laughs, rubbing his head and giggling. Castiel shakes his head and smiles indulgently. Meg rolls her eyes at them.

Dean and Cas go back to the condo and stay up all night to watch state after state declared wins for Michael. It’s a landslide election in favor of the nation’s first Gen president. Cas is despondent, but calm, lying comfortably in the circle of Dean’s arms. 

A commercial for orange juice is playing on the TV when Dean feels the shuddering of Cas’ breath in a silent sob. Dean tightens his arms, pulling Cas’ back tighter to his chest.

“You ok?” he asks, nuzzling Castiel’s muss of hair. Cas draws in another shaky breath.

“I am sad,” Cas whispers, his voice cracking. 

“Yeah, I know. Me too,” Dean agrees. 

“I thought - it wasn’t supposed to go like this. I was the best candidate for the job. The numbers were good. It was all good. Perfect.”

“Perfect on paper. What did Anna write in the article? Life’s not a piece of paper?”

“ _ Life is so much more mysterious and complicated and wonderful than a piece of paper would have us believe _ ,” Cas quotes, because of course he remembers every word of the article.

“Exactly.”

They both fall silent. Dean thinks about the stories that were written for them before they were born. Neat rows of numbers on crisp white sheets of paper, laying out how their lives were supposed to go. But life is so much more than that.

Sometimes you have to recognize that someone else can’t interpret your numbers for you. Just because you don’t fit the picture they get in their head from the numbers on the paper, doesn’t make you wrong.

Sometimes you have to understand that it’s ok for the numbers to be a part of you, because they are not all of you.

Sometimes you have to realize that the numbers are just numbers, not a person, not a life. The numbers have no head and no heart, but you do, and you can follow them instead.

“And sometimes you fall in love with your best friend,” Dean finishes his thoughts out loud. Castiel squirms and shifts so he can look at Dean. Dean studies the shades of blue that fleck Cas’ eyes.

“Yes,” Cas breathes. “What happens now?”

“Well,” Dean thinks for a moment, “anything we want, I guess.”

“Anything,” Castiel marvels. There’s no more numbers for them to follow. Only their heads and their hearts.

“Anything,” Dean confirms. Castiel’s smile is sunshine and Dean understands everything his bright blue eyes are saying, no words necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is loosely inspired by a treatment I wrote in my third year of college earning my writing degree. I just couldn't make the plot work, and I argued so much with the professor over the direction of my story, I ended up dropping the class entirely. When I was thinking about what I wanted to write as my next fanfic project, that old treatment came to mind, and suddenly, with Dean, Sam, and Castiel in the starring roles, the whole plot started to make sense.
> 
> I can't call this the best thing I've ever written, and I can certainly see all its flaws for what they are, but it was a labor of love, and I am happy that this story was finally able to be told, even imperfectly. Because, after all, nothing is ever really Perfect, is it?
> 
> xoxoxo, [Jai](http://jailikechai.tumblr.com)


End file.
